Thou
hast
nor
youth
nor
age
But
as
it
were
an
after
dinner
sleep
Dreaming
of
both.
Here
I
am,
an
old
man
in
a
dry
month,
Being
read
to
by
a
boy,
waiting
for
rain.
I
was
neither
at
the
hot
gates
Nor
fought
in
the
warm
rain
Nor
knee
deep
in
the
salt
marsh,
heaving
a
cutlass,
Bitten
by
flies,
fought.
My
house
is
a
decayed
house,
And
the
jew
squats
on
the
window
sill,
the
owner,
Spawned
in
some
estaminet
of
Antwerp,
Blistered
in
Brussels,
patched
and
peeled
in
London.
The
goat
coughs
at
night
in
the
field
overhead;
Rocks,
moss,
stonecrop,
iron,
merds.
The
woman
keeps
the
kitchen,
makes
tea,
Sneezes
at
evening,
poking
the
peevish
gutter.
I
an
old
man,
A
dull
head
among
windy
spaces.
Signs
are
taken
for
wonders.
"We
would
see
a
sign!"
The
word
within
a
word,
unable
to
speak
a
word,
Swaddled
with
darkness.
In
the
juvescence
of
the
year
Came
Christ
the
tiger
In
depraved
May,
dogwood
and
chestnut,
flowering
Judas,
To
be
eaten,
to
be
divided,
to
be
drunk
Among
whispers;
by
Mr.
Silvero
With
caressing
hands,
at
Limoges
Who
walked
all
night
in
the
next
room;
By
Hakagawa,
bowing
among
the
Titians;
By
Madame
de
Tornquist,
in
the
dark
room
Shifting
the
candles;
Fraulein
von
Kulp
Who
turned
in
the
hall,
one
hand
on
the
door.
Vacant
shuttles
Weave
the
wind.
I
have
no
ghosts,
An
old
man
in
a
draughty
house
Under
a
windy
knob.
After
such
knowledge,
what
forgiveness?
Think
now
History
has
many
cunning
passages,
contrived
corridors
And
issues,
deceives
with
whispering
ambitions,
Guides
us
by
vanities.
Think
now
She
gives
when
our
attention
is
distracted
And
what
she
gives,
gives
with
such
supple
confusions
That
the
giving
famishes
the
craving.
Gives
too
late
What's
not
believed
in,
or
if
still
believed,
In
memory
only,
reconsidered
passion.
Gives
too
soon
Into
weak
hands,
what's
thought
can
be
dispensed
with
Till
the
refusal
propagates
a
fear.
Think
Neither
fear
nor
courage
saves
us.
Unnatural
vices
Are
fathered
by
our
heroism.
Virtues
Are
forced
upon
us
by
our
impudent
crimes.
These
tears
are
shaken
from
the
wrath-bearing
tree.
The
tiger
springs
in
the
new
year.
Us
he
devours.
Think
at
last
We
have
not
reached
conclusion,
when
I
Stiffen
in
a
rented
house.
Think
at
last
I
have
not
made
this
show
purposelessly
And
it
is
not
by
any
concitation
Of
the
backward
devils.
I
would
meet
you
upon
this
honestly.
I
that
was
near
your
heart
was
removed
therefrom
To
lose
beauty
in
terror,
terror
in
inquisition.
I
have
lost
my
passion:
why
should
I
need
to
keep
it
Since
what
is
kept
must
be
adulterated?
I
have
lost
my
sight,
smell,
hearing,
taste
and
touch:
How
should
I
use
it
for
your
closer
contact?
These
with
a
thousand
small
deliberations
Protract
the
profit
of
their
chilled
delirium,
Excite
the
membrane,
when
the
sense
has
cooled,
With
pungent
sauces,
multiply
variety
In
a
wilderness
of
mirrors.
What
will
the
spider
do,
Suspend
its
operations,
will
the
weevil
Delay?
De
Bailhache,
Fresca,
Mrs.
Cammel,
whirled
Beyond
the
circuit
of
the
shuddering
Bear
In
fractured
atoms.
Gull
against
the
wind,
in
the
windy
straits
Of
Belle
Isle,
or
running
on
the
Horn,
White
feathers
in
the
snow,
the
Gulf
claims,
And
an
old
man
driven
by
the
Trades
To
a
sleepy
corner.
Tenants
of
the
house,
Thoughts
of
a
dry
brain
in
a
dry
season.
