The poem is the cry of the occasion,

Part of the res itself and not about it.

The poet speaks the poem as it is,

Not as it was: part of the reverberation

Of a windy night as it is, when the marble statues

Are like newspapers blown by the wind. He speaks

By sight and insight as they are. There is no

tomorrow for him. The wind will have passed by,

The statues will have gone back to be things about

The mobile and the immobile flickering

In the area between is and was are leaves,

Leaves burnished in autumnal burnished trees

And leaves in whirling in the gutters, whirlings

Around and away, resembling the presence of thought,

Resembling the presences of thoughts, as if,

In the end, in the whole psychology, the self,

The town, the weather, in a casual litter,

Together, said words of the world are the life of the world.