The Man with the Blue Guitar XXVI

The world washed in his imagination.

The world was a shore, whether sound or form

Or light, the relic of farewells.

Rock, of valedictory echoings,

To which his imagination returned,

From which it sped, a bar in space.

Sand heaped in the clouds, giant that fought

Against the murderous alphabet:

The swarm of thoughts, the swarm of dreams

Of inaccessible Utopia.

A mountainous music always seemed

To be falling and to be passing away.