Sunstones fall into seagold. No apologies!
I came here with a group of archaeologists.

Under the white sliced up hill
A city is dreaming, an infant still.

The sleep of a hidden epoch shatters,
The hiding itself endlessly chatters.

Silences smile, eyes shut as in pleasure.
Silence — form, and silence — measure.

Silences dazzle with color dynamics —
The archaeologists find here — ceramics.

Not the souls of humans, of suns —
Somebody finds a shard all at once.

A flash of joy struck the old professor —
Here is a knife of Tiglath Pilasser.

And I want to say, with no apologies,
To the archaeologists:

Nonsense, brothers, vanity of vanities,
Until you find the dream of those humanities.

1950