Let us go then, you and I,
When the
evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient
etherized upon a table;
Let us go,
through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in
one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust
restaurants with oyster-shells
Streets that follow like a
tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, ``
What is it?
''
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the
women come and go
Talking
of Michelangelo.
The yellow
fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The
yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening.
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains.
Let fall upon its back the
soot 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 time
For the
yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the
window-panes;
There will be
time,
there will be
time
To 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 hands
That 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 go
Talking of
Michelangelo.
And indeed
there will be time
To 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,
My necktie rich and modest,
but asserted by a simple pin--
[They will say: ``But how his arms and legs are thin!'']
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is
time
For decisions and revisions
which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the
evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have
measured out my life with
coffee spoons;
I know the
voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the
music from a 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 begin
To 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 dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms 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 pipes
Of
lonely men in shirt-sleeves,
leaning out of windows? . . .
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon,
the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed 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 head [grown slightly bald]
brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have
squeezed the universe into a ball
To 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 dooryards
and the sprinkled streets,
After the
novels,
after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along 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 a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow, or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
``That is not it 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 do
To swell a progress,
start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, 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 times, the Fool.
I grow old . . .
I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall
wear white flannel trousers, and
walk upon the beach.
I have
heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding
seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By
sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us,
and we drown.
You can send comments and link suggestions to me at ccm@cs.amherst.edu
