I Is there, in all this trash Of destinations, of places seen and places repeated Like last year's film, last year's roses, last year's weather Anything for the spirit to extract, Extract and raise high and chant about? Any glitter to be picked from the waste of days, Any gold cloud built, any monument of twigs? Is there anything to whistle up from the repeated place, An eon's verdure or stone bouquet? II In the repeated place, in a repeated time Must cold bouquets like fountains still renew And renew again their spilling blooms-- As in a height of speech in a vented space, As if death itself were only heightened speech In a vented space, or an old horn abandoned in a field, The hunt decayed, and the trumpet rusted That had brightened speech, and not quite out of sight? Is there any bower to be had? Or only Repeated scenes stuffed with repeated speech Crisp adjectives must keep forever fresh-- Perpetual ecstasy, and still unfinished rooms, Rotted flowers racing back to bloom? III The pile of days like a pile of cards Tips one more card blankly onto a pile of blanks. Where is the change of hue or lilted modulation, The mutability in the rose that turns Ripely from rose-red to rose, to a few Green, wrecked leaves laying spattered in the path, Sparse litterings, wretched shrinkage Of a grander theme that pushed, and with the push Of birth had pushed, teasing lustrous harmonies Out of rocks that tinkled for a time, spritzed fresh, Lisping a damaged planet's name to space?