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Page 5 · column 3 of 6 · from the scan, no model involved
Giving her perishable souvenir of hope, a dull white outside and smoothedged 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 devilfish, her glass ram’s horn-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 closelaid
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.
—Marianne Moore
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