Petals on a wet, black bough

In a Station of the Metro by Ezra Pound

THE apparition of these faces in the crowd;

Petals on a wet, black bough.

Poetry that lands in a deep echoing thud in the pit of my belly and resonates through the veins of my mind in its rawest primeval form.
Makes me want to flop down on the last step of my experiments in writing, face in my hands, wondering if its even worth going on.