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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. | |
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In the room the women come and go | |
Talking of Michelangelo. | |
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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. | |
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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 prophetand heres 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. | |
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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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