My verse is no upholstered chariot
Gliding oil-smooth on oiled wheels,
No swift and shining modern limousine,
But a pushcart, rather.
A crazy creaking pushcart, hard to push
Round corners, slung on shaky patchwork wheels,
That jolts and jumbles over the cobblestones
Its very various lading:
A lading of Spanish oranges, Smyrna figs,
Fly-specked apples, perhaps of the Hesperides,
Curious fruits of the Indies, pepper-sweet ...
Stranger, choose and taste.
_Dolo_