Together with all this there was something of the
evil atmosphere of war. No cock crowed; nosmoke rose; no train moved. Then under the
dullness someone walks with a green light.
My book, stuffed with phrases, has dropped to the
floor.
From me haddropped the old cloak, the old response;
the hollowed hand thatbeats back sounds. The woods had vanished; the earth was a
waste of shadow. Another day;another Friday; another twentieth of March, January, or
September.
We became six people ata table in Hampton Court.
How then does light return to the world after the eclipse of thesun?
While they were talking round the table some
remarkbrought it out that I was a foreigner. To contact Project Gutenberg of
Australia go to http://gutenberg.
He jibs if I keep him waiting for dinner. Must I
for ever, I said, beat my spoon on the table-cloth? He jibs if I keep him waiting
for dinner. While they add up the bill behind the screen, wait
onemoment.
Later, walking down FleetStreet at the rush hour, I
recalled that moment; I continued it. Despite theseefforts, the Projects eBooks and
any medium they may be on may containDefects.
Dawn is some sortof whitening of the sky; some sort
of renewal. The note was scribbled,the book shut, for I am an intermittent
student.
Now the meal is finished; we are surrounded by
peelings andbreadcrumbs. But there is a kindling in the sky whether of lamplight or
of dawn.
Here are chairs turned but nobody sits on them.
Dawn is some sortof whitening of the sky; some sort of renewal. I leant my head back
and was swathed in a sheet.
It is true, he washes his hands before dinner, but
they arestill hairy. It puts on weight; rounds itself; hangspendent; settles and
swings beneath our feet.
Must I for ever, I said, beat my spoon on the
table-cloth?
It is true, he washes his hands before dinner, but
they arestill hairy.
So I hung up my coat, tapped you on the shoulder,
andsaid, Sit with me. I have been talking of Bernard, Neville, Jinny, Susan, Rhoda
andLouis.
Now the meal is finished; we are surrounded by
peelings andbreadcrumbs.
I mention this Italian militiaman because he has
stuck vividly in my memory. Must I for ever, I said, beat my spoon on the
table-cloth? Iwas thinking of that page in the picture-book.
She walked heavily with her sons acrossher meadows.
Nothing that comes down with all itsfeet on the floor.
Lovelinessreturns as one looks, with all its train
of phantom phrases.
I mention this Italian militiaman because he has
stuck vividly in my memory.
I have been talking of Bernard, Neville, Jinny,
Susan, Rhoda andLouis.