For authorities whose hopes

    are shaped by mercenaries？

    Writers entrapped by

    teatime fame and by

    commuters' comforts？  Not for these

    the paper nautilus

    constructs her thin glass shell.

    Giving her perishable

    souvenir of hope， a dull

    white outside and smooth-

    edged inner surface

    glossy as the sea， the watchful

    maker of it guards it

    day and night； she scarcely

    eats until the eggs are hatched.

    Buried eight-fold in her eight

    arms， for she is in

    a sense a devil-

    fish， her glass ram'shorn-cradled freight

    is hid but is not crushed；

    as Hercules， bitten

    by a crab loyal to the hydra，

    was hindered to succeed，

    the intensively

    watched eggs coming from

    the shell free it when they are freed，——

    leaving its wasp-nest flaws

    of white on white， and close-

    laid Ionic chiton-folds

    like the lines in the mane of

    a Parthenon horse，

    round which the arms had

    wound themselves as if they knew love

    is the only fortress

    strong enough to trust to.