I am no prophet-and here's no great matter Though I have seen my head brought in upon a platter, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?īut though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.Īnd the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! I should have been a pair of ragged claws Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? … Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streetsĪnd watched the smoke that rises from the pipes To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?Īnd I have known the arms already, known them all-Īrms that are braceleted and white and bareĪrms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,Īnd when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, I know the voices dying with a dying fallĪnd I have known the eyes already, known them all. I have measured out my life with coffee spoons Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin-įor decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.įor I have known them all already, known them all.
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair. To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
That lift and drop a question on your plate To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet Īnd time for all the works and days of hands Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,Īnd seeing that it was a soft October night,Ĭurled once about the house, and fell asleep.įor the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotelsĪnd sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, When the evening is spread out against the sky
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