When the wind blows the water white and black. I have seen them riding seaward on the wavesĬombing the white hair of the waves blown back I do not think that they will sing to me. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. To swell a progress, start a scene or two,Īdvise the prince no doubt, an easy tool, No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,Īnd turning toward the window, should say: It is impossible to say just what I mean!īut as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Should say: “That is not what I meant at all Īfter the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,Īfter the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor. To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,Ĭome back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”. To roll it towards some overwhelming question, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To have bitten off the matter with a smile, I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,Īnd I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,Īnd would it have been worth it, after all,Īmong the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, I am no prophet - and here’s no great matter Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?īut though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.Īnd the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! I should have been a pair of ragged claws Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? … Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streetsĪnd watched the smoke that rises from the pipes (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)Īrms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?Īnd I have known the arms already, known them all-Īrms that are braceleted and white and bare When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,Īnd when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, I know the voices dying with a dying fallĪnd I have known the eyes already, known them all. I have measured out my life with coffee spoons Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, (They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)įor decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.įor I have known them all already, known them all: My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin. My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, (They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”) With a bald spot in the middle of my hair. To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” That lift and drop a question on your plate To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet Īnd time for all the works and days of hands Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,Īnd seeing that it was a soft October night,Ĭurled once about the house, and fell asleep.įor the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotelsĪnd sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, When the evening is spread out against the sky
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