This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
POEMS BY MARIANNE MOORE
FEED ME, ALSO, RIVER GOD,
lest by diminished vitality and abated
vigilance, I become food for crocodiles—for that quicksand
of gluttony which is legion. It is there—close at hand—
  on either side
  of me. You remember the Israelites who said in pride

and stoutness of heart: "The bricks are fallen down, we will
build with hewn stone, the sycamores are cut down, we will change to
cedars"? I am not ambitious to dress stones, to renew
  forts, nor to match
  my value in action, against their ability to catch

up with arrested prosperity. I am not like
them, indefatigable, but if you are a god you will
not discriminate against me. Yet—if you may fulfil
  none but prayers dressed
  as gifts in return for your gifts—disregard the request.

TO WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS ON TAGORE
It is made clear by the phrase,
even the mood—by virtue of which he says

the thing he thinks—that it pays,
to cut gems even in these conscience-less days;

but the jewel that always
outshines ordinary jewels, is your praise.

8