Imago

Who can pick up the weight of Britain,
Who can move the German load
Or say to the French here is France again?
Imago. Imago. Imago.

It is nothing, no great thing, nor man
Of ten brilliancies of battered gold
And fortunate stone. It moves its parade
Of motions in the mind and heart,

A gorgeous fortitude. Medium man
In February hears the imagination’s hymns
And sees its images, its motions
And multitude of motions

And feels the imagination’s mercies.

In a season more than sun and south wind.
Something returning from a deeper quarter,
A glacier running through delirium.

Making this heavy rock a place.

Which is not of our lives composed . . .
Lightly and lightly, O my land,

Move lightly through the air again.