page 46

9th July, 1932

Grey sky, grey city-smoke;
garden all gone bare, gaunt mountains;
pitiful pipe of well-nigh homeless birds.…

But then these stinging sun-roused messages
tossed hither salt-cold, from the pacific sea;
those foremost, dawn-dyed, rose-red eminences,
those snow-fast, soon-to-be-incarnadined strongholds beyond..…

There shall be no insistence upon symbolism;
let each eye take the tokens, heart interpret,
individual tongue make fit respond.