Great literature is simply language charged with meaning to the utmost possible degree. - Ezra Pound 1885-1972
* * *
To Alexander Blok
When I came to see the poet
It was noon. The day was Sunday.
Large the room was, large and quiet;
In the street reigned frost... The sun
Was a crimson ball. Beneath it
Shaggy, dove-grey smoke went drifting..
Silent stood my host before me:
How serene, how clear his gaze!
Such his eyes that he who sees them
Even once cannot forget them.
As for me, I would be safer
Had I met them not at all.
But I will remember always
What we talked about that Sunday
In the tall grey house that towered
By the gateway to the sea.