Pregnant with mandrakes, or with something else
That might prove useful and yet never proves
That never fits a corner or shows use
Or finds its hour upon the loom of days:
The tarnished, gaudy, wonderful old work;
Idols and ambergris and rare inlays
These are your riches, your great store; and yet
For all this sea-hoard of deciduous things
Strange woods half sodden, and new brighter stuff:
In the slow float of differing light and deep
No! there is nothing! In the whole and all
Nothing that's quite your own
Yet this is you
–Except that this existence  is  her existence. Even though her personality is made up of all those fragments, fitting them together is what makes the woman Pound describe’s different.