S’ io credessi che mia risposta fosseA persona che mai tornasse al mondo,Questa flAmma staria sensa piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondoNon torno vivo alcum, s’ i’ odo il vero,Senza tema d’ infamia ti rispondoLet us go then, you and I,When the evening is spread out against the skyLike a patient etherized upon a table;Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,The muttering retreatsOf restless nights in one-night cheap hotelsAnd sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:Streets that follow like a tedious argumentOf insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question . Oh, do not ask, “Whet is it ?”Let us go and make our visit.Order now
In the room the women come and goTalking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rub* it* back upon the window pane*,The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window panes,Licked its tongue into the comer* of the evening. Lingered updn the pools that stand in drainsLet fall upon its back tbc spot that falls from chimneys,Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,And seeing that it was a soft October night,Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. And indeed there will be timeFor the yellow smoke that slide along the street,Rubbing its back upon the window panes;There will be time, there will be timeTo prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;There will be time to murder and create. And time for all the works and days of handsThat lift and drop a question on your plate:Time for you and time for me,And time yet for a hundred indecisions.
And for a hundred visions and revisions,Before the taking of a toast and tea. In the room the women come and goTalking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be timeTo wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?*’—Time to turn back and descend the stair,With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
POETRY: a Magazine of Verse
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)Do I dareDisturb the universe ?In a minute there is timeFor decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. For I have known them already, known them all:Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;1 know the voices dying with a dying fallBeneath the music from ? farther room.
So how should I presume?And I have known the eyes already, known them all—The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase. And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin. When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall. Then how should I beginTo spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?And how should I presume?And I have known the arms already, known them all—Arms that are braceleted and white and bare(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)Is it perfume from a dressThat makes me so digress?Arm* that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume ?And how should I begin?Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets,And watched the smoke that rises from the pipesOf lonely men in shirtsleeves, leaning out of windows ? . . . I should have been a pair of ragged clawsScuttling across the floors of silent seas. And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!Smooched by long fingers,Asleep .
. . tired . .
. or it malingers,Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices. Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,Though I have seen my bead (grown slightly bald) broughtin upon a platter,I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;1 have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,And 1 have seen the eternal Footman hold my ccet, andwicker,And in short, I was afraid. And would it have been worth it, after all,After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
POETRY: A Magazine of Verse
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,Would it have been worth whileTo have bitten off tbe matter with a smile,To have squeezed the universe into a ballTo roll it toward some overwhelming question,To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—If one, settling a pillow by her head,Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;That is not it, at all.
“And would it have been worth it. after all,Would it have been worth while,After the sunsets and the doorvards and the sprinkled streets. After the novels, after the teacups, after tbe skirts that trailalong the floor—And this, and so much more ?—It is impossible to say just what I mean!But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on ascreen:*Would it have been worth whileIf one. settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl.
And turning toward the window, should say: “That is notit at all,That is not what I meant, at all. “No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;Am an attendant lord, one that will doTo swell ? progress, start ? scene or two,Advise the prince: withal, an easy tool,Deferential, glad to be of use,Politic, cautious, and meticulous;Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—Almost, at limes, the Fool. 1 gTow old . .
. I grow old . . .1 shall wear the bottoms of my trowsere rolled.Shall 1 part my hair behind ? Do I dare to eat a peach ?1 shall wear white flannel trowsers, and walk upon the beach.I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.I do not think that they will sing to me.1 have seen them riding seaward on the waves,Combing the white hair of the waves blown backWhen the wind blows the water white and black.Wc have lingered in the chambers of the seaBy seagirls wreathed with seaweed red and brown,Till human voices wake us, and we drown.