by Marianne Moore

    For authorities whose hopes

    are shaped by mercenaries？

    Writers entrapped¹ by

    teatime fame and by

    commuters' comforts？  Not for these

    the paper nautilus

    constructs her thin glass shell.

    Giving her perishable²

    souvenir of hope， a dull

    white outside and smooth-

    edged inner surface

    glossy³ as the sea， the watchful⁴

    maker⁵ 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 crab⁶ loyal to the hydra⁷，

    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 fortress⁸

    strong enough to trust to.

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