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Great literature is simply language charged with meaning to the utmost possible degree. - Ezra Pound 1885-1972

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Irreparably white the page. Long hours
Spent vainly at a desk. Of warmth and Nice
Smell the mimosa's tiny, yellow flowers.
Caught by the moon's white ray, a large bird flies.

It's bedtime, and my long hair plaiting tightly -
As though it mattered!- out the window I,
No longer sad, my heart a little lighter,
Stare at the sea, the sandy slopes, the sky.

What power has he, one who will refrain
From asking for so much as tenderness!
I cannot lift my eyelids when my name
He speaks, and am all pain and weariness.

1913