Anna

THE GARDEN by Pound ------------------------------------------------------------ ---------------------------------------------------- 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 anemia. // 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.