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On my right are trees and a lank stream slidingImpervious as Anaconda to the sunsOf autumn; and the boughs are vipers writhingTo slough the summer from their brittle bones.Here is the Trojan meadow, here Scamander;And I, the counterfeit Achilles, feelA river-god surge up to tear me asunder,A serpent melancholy bruise my heel.
On my left is the city famed for talkAnd tolerance. Its old men run aboutChasing reality, chasing the AukWith butterfly-nets. Its young men swell the routGaping at Helen in the restaurant,Mocking at Helen from monastic towers.Boy Achilles, who has known Helen too longTo scold or worship, stands outside and glowers.
Between the stream and city a rubbish heapProclaims the pleasant norm with smouldering stenches.See! the pathetic pyre where Trojans keepWell out of sight the prey of time's revenges;Old butterfly-nets, couches where lovers lay—
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