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A deep varnish was laid like a lacquer overthe fields. Meeting and parting, we
assemble different forms, makedifferent patterns. The common fund of experience
is very deep.
And thepoem, I think, is only your voice speaking.
Now the cool
tide of darknessbreaks its waters over me.
Consider the friends with whom we
sit and eat.
Sleep, sleep, I croon, whether it is summer or winter, May
orNovember.
Now theypaused in their song as if glutted with sound, as if the
fullnessof midday had gorged them.
At the same time I am not involved in this
pageantry. I will pacethis terrace and watch the ships bowling down the tide.
The sand was pearl white, smoothed and shining. Outside lines twist and
intersect, but round us,wrapping us about.
They loved riding, they riskedtheir
lives wantonly, they were not great readers either.
But for the most part I
walk content with my sons.
Ithink of Louis, reading the sporting column of an
eveningnewspaper, afraid of ridicule; a snob.
Plato andShakespeare are
included, also quite obscure people, people of noimportance whatsoever.
Sleep,
sleep, I croon, whether it is summer or winter, May orNovember.
I neverwish to
prolong these states of detachment; I dislike them; I alsodespise them.
The
butcher calls; themilk has to be stood under a shade lest it should sour. Some
will never come intothis room again. There will be no reflections in
window-panes in darktunnels. An axe has split a tree to the core; the core is
warm; soundquivers within the bark. Here are hate, jealousy, hurry,
andindifference frothed into the wild semblance of life.
The hatchet must fall
on the block; the oak must becleft to the centre. The sun no longer stood in
the middle of the sky. Here is the pen and the paper; on the letters in the
wire basket Isign my name, I, I, and again I.
Here are hate, jealousy, hurry,
andindifference frothed into the wild semblance of life. London consists of
fallen factories and a fewgasometers.
The waves massed themselves, curved their
backs and crashed.
London consists of fallen factories and a fewgasometers.
Let
them fail and I am full of holes, dwindlinglike burnt paper. Look now from this
terrace at the swarming population beneath. Alcibiades, Ajax,Hector and
Percival are also you.
Everything must be done to rebuke the horrorof
deformity. We ran back panting lest weshould be shot and nailed like stoats to
the wall.
I shall never again walk bang into thepillar-box.
Then, swollen but
contained in slippery satin,the seagreen woman comes to our rescue. Here is the
pen and the paper; on the letters in the wire basket Isign my name, I, I, and
again I.
Birds fell like a net descending on thetree-tops.
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