socialkaysualty PLATINUM, Dover, Delaware
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Favorite Quote:
Let us go then, you and I, <br /> When the evening is spread out against the sky <br /> Like a patient etherized upon a table; <br /> Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, <br /> The muttering retreats <br /> Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels <br /> And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: <br /> Streets that follow like a tedious argument <br /> Of insidious intent <br /> To lead you to an overwhelming question ... <br /> Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” <br /> Let us go and make our visit. <br /> <br /> In the room the women come and go <br /> Talking of Michelangelo. <br /> <br /> The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, <br /> The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, <br /> Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, <br /> Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, <br /> Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, <br /> Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, <br /> And seeing that it was a soft October night, <br /> Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. <br /> <br /> And indeed there will be time <br /> For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, <br /> Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; <br /> There will be time, there will be time <br /> To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; <br /> There will be time to murder and create, <br /> And time for all the works and days of hands <br /> That lift and drop a question on your plate; <br /> Time for you and time for me, <br /> And time yet for a hundred indecisions, <br /> And for a hundred visions and revisions, <br /> Before the taking of a toast and tea. <br /> <br /> In the room the women come and go <br /> Talking of Michelangelo. <br /> <br /> And indeed there will be time <br /> To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” <br /> Time to turn back and descend the stair, <br /> With a bald spot in the middle of my hair — <br /> (They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”) <br /> My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, <br /> My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin — <br /> (They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”) <br /> Do I dare <br /> Disturb the universe? <br /> In a minute there is time <br /> For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. <br /> <br /> For I have known them all already, known them all: <br /> Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, <br /> I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; <br /> I know the voices dying with a dying fall <br /> Beneath the music from a farther room. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> So how should I presume? <br /> <br /> And I have known the eyes already, known them all— <br /> The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, <br /> And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, <br /> When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, <br /> Then how should I begin <br /> To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> And how should I presume? <br /> <br /> And I have known the arms already, known them all— <br /> Arms that are braceleted and white and bare <br /> (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) <br /> Is it perfume from a dress <br /> That makes me so digress? <br /> Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> And should I then presume? <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> And how should I begin? <br /> <br /> Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets <br /> And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes <br /> Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ... <br /> <br /> I should have been a pair of ragged claws <br /> Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. <br /> <br /> And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! <br /> Smoothed by long fingers, <br /> Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers, <br /> Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. <br /> Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, <br /> Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? <br /> But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, <br /> Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, <br /> I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter; <br /> I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, <br /> And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, <br /> And in short, I was afraid. <br /> <br /> And would it have been worth it, after all, <br /> After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, <br /> Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, <br /> Would it have been worth while, <br /> To have bitten off the matter with a smile, <br /> To have squeezed the universe into a ball <br /> To roll it towards some overwhelming question, <br /> To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, <br /> Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— <br /> If one, settling a pillow by her head <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> Should say: “That is not what I meant at all; <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> That is not it, at all.” <br /> <br /> And would it have been worth it, after all, <br /> Would it have been worth while, <br /> After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, <br /> After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— <br /> And this, and so much more?— <br /> It is impossible to say just what I mean! <br /> But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: <br /> Would it have been worth while <br /> If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, <br /> And turning toward the window, should say: <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> “That is not it at all, <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> That is not what I meant, at all.” <br /> <br /> No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; <br /> Am an attendant lord, one that will do <br /> To swell a progress, start a scene or two, <br /> Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, <br /> Deferential, glad to be of use, <br /> Politic, cautious, and meticulous; <br /> Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; <br /> At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— <br /> Almost, at times, the Fool. <br /> <br /> I grow old ... I grow old ... <br /> I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. <br /> <br /> Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? <br /> I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. <br /> I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. <br /> <br /> I do not think that they will sing to me. <br /> <br /> I have seen them riding seaward on the waves <br /> Combing the white hair of the waves blown back <br /> When the wind blows the water white and black. <br /> We have lingered in the chambers of the sea <br /> By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown <br /> Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
