Like a skein of loose silk blown against a wall
She walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens,
And she is dying piece-meal
of a sort of emotional anæmia.
And round about there is a rabble
Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor.
They shall inherit the earth.
In her is the end of breeding.
Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.
She would like some one to speak to her,
And is almost afraid that I
will commit that indiscretion.
I love the images in this poem: the way Pound describes the woman reminds me of all the weak sickly women of Dostoyevsky novels. The judgmental yet gentle description is fascinating. Apart from "In a station of the metro" this is my favorite Pound poem.