"Gardinir Janus"
di Edith Sitwell (1887-1964)

Baskets of ripe fruit in air
The bird-songs seem, suspended where
Between the hairy leaves trills dew,
All tasting of fresh green anew.
Ma'am, I've heard your laughter flare
Through your waspish-gilded hair:
Feathered masks
Pots of peas,
Janus asks
Naught of these
Creaking water
Brightly striped,
No, I've caught her -
Shrieking biped
Flute sounds jump
And turn together
Changing clumps
Of glassy feather.
In among the
Pots of peas
Naiad changes -
Quick as these.