  UPON the noon Cassandra died The harpy preened itself outside. Bank Holiday put forth its glamour, And in the wayside station’s clamour We found the cafÉ at the rear, And sat and drank our Pilsener beer. Words smeared upon our wooden faces Now paint them into queer grimaces; The crackling greeneries that spirt Like fireworks, mock our souls inert, And we seem feathered like a bird Among those shadows scarcely heard. Beneath her shade-ribbed switchback mane The harpy, breasted like a train, Was haggling with a farmer’s wife: “Fresh harpy’s eggs, no trace of life.” Miss Sitwell, cross and white as chalk, Was indisposed for the small talk. Since, peering through a shadowed door, She saw Cassandra on the floor. |
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