All through a night, poet would see
Moths in the sky , on the river bank
A sky enough moth-eaten for poets ,
Fallen angels to a winter of London.

Poet falls upon bad times,sad times
Cold on wintry days under blanket
Full of moth-eaten holes like stars.
But this time a sky is eaten by stars.

He may not rise from embankment
High enough to see glorious sunrise
But chinks in the blanket are enough
To let in star light to warm his body.

(Referring to T.E.Hulme’s poem ‘The Embankment“)

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