| 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 |
5 |
| 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…. |
10 |
| 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, |
15 |
| 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, |
20 |
| 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; |
25 |
| 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; |
30 |
| 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 |
35 |
| 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— |
40 |
| (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 |
45 |
| 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, |
50 |
| 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— |
55 |
| 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? |
60 |
| 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 |
65 |
| 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 |
70 |
| 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! |
75 |
| 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? |
80 |
| 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, |
85 |
| 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, |
90 |
| 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”— |
95 |
| 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, |
100 |
| 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: |
105 |
| 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.”
. . . . . . . .
|
110 |
| 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, |
115 |
| 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 … |
120 |
| 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. |
125 |
|
| 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 |
130 |
| Till human voices wake us, and we drown. |
|
|
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