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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:17:12 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:17:12 -0700 |
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diff --git a/1459-h/1459-h.htm b/1459-h/1459-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c7e17dc --- /dev/null +++ b/1459-h/1459-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,839 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Prufrock and Other Observations, by T. S. Eliot</title> + +<style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +pre { font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1459 ***</div> + + <h1> + PRUFROCK AND OTHER OBSERVATIONS + </h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">By T. S. Eliot</h2> + + <h4> + To Jean Verdenal 1889-1915 <br /><br /><br /> Certain of these poems appeared + first in “Poetry” and “Others” + </h4> + + <hr /> + + <h3> + Contents + </h3> + +<table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#linklovesong"> The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> Portrait of a Lady </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> Preludes </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> Rhapsody on a Windy Night </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> Morning at the Window </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> The Boston Evening Transcript </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> Aunt Helen </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> Cousin Nancy </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> Mr. Apollinax </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> Hysteria </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> Conversation Galante </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> La Figlia Che Piange </a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + + <hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="linklovesong" id="linklovesong"></a> + The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse + A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, + Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. + Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo + Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, + Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 + 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 ... + 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, + 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, + 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; + 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; + 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 + 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— + (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 + 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, + 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— + 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? + 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 + 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 + 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! + 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? + 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, + 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, + 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”— + 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, + 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: + 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.” + + * * * * + + 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, + 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 ... + 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. + + 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 + Till human voices wake us, and we drown. +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"></a> + Portrait of a Lady + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thou hast committed— + Fornication: but that was in another country, + And besides, the wench is dead. + The Jew Of Malta +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon + You have the scene arrange itself—as it will seem to do— + With “I have saved this afternoon for you”; + And four wax candles in the darkened room, + Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead, + An atmosphere of Juliet’s tomb + Prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid. + We have been, let us say, to hear the latest Pole + Transmit the Preludes, through his hair and finger tips. + “So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul + Should be resurrected only among friends + Some two or three, who will not touch the bloom + That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room.” + —And so the conversation slips + Among velleities and carefully caught regrets + Through attenuated tones of violins + Mingled with remote cornets + And begins. + + “You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends, + And how, how rare and strange it is, to find + In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends, + (For indeed I do not love it ... you knew? you are not blind! + How keen you are!) + To find a friend who has these qualities, + Who has, and gives + Those qualities upon which friendship lives. + How much it means that I say this to you— + Without these friendships—life, what cauchemar!” + Among the windings of the violins + And the ariettes + Of cracked cornets + Inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins + Absurdly hammering a prelude of its own, + Capricious monotone + That is at least one definite “false note.” + —Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance, + Admire the monuments + Discuss the late events, + Correct our watches by the public clocks. + Then sit for half an hour and drink our bocks. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + Now that lilacs are in bloom + She has a bowl of lilacs in her room + And twists one in her fingers while she talks. + “Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know + What life is, you who hold it in your hands”; + (Slowly twisting the lilac stalks) + “You let it flow from you, you let it flow, + And youth is cruel, and has no remorse + And smiles at situations which it cannot see.” + I smile, of course, + And go on drinking tea. + “Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall + My buried life, and Paris in the Spring, + I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world + To be wonderful and youthful, after all.” + + The voice returns like the insistent out-of-tune + Of a broken violin on an August afternoon: + “I am always sure that you understand + My feelings, always sure that you feel, + Sure that across the gulf you reach your hand. + + You are invulnerable, you have no Achilles’ heel. + You will go on, and when you have prevailed + You can say: at this point many a one has failed. + + But what have I, but what have I, my friend, + To give you, what can you receive from me? + Only the friendship and the sympathy + Of one about to reach her journey’s end. + + I shall sit here, serving tea to friends....” + + I take my hat: how can I make a cowardly amends + For what she has said to me? + You will see me any morning in the park + Reading the comics and the sporting page. + Particularly I remark + An English countess goes upon the stage. + A Greek was murdered at a Polish dance, + Another bank defaulter has confessed. + I keep my countenance, + I remain self-possessed + Except when a street piano, mechanical and tired + Reiterates some worn-out common song + With the smell of hyacinths across the garden + Recalling things that other people have desired. + Are these ideas right or wrong? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III + + The October night comes down; returning as before + Except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease + I mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door + And feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees. + + “And so you are going abroad; and when do you return? + But that’s a useless question. + You hardly know when you are coming back, + You will find so much to learn.” + My smile falls heavily among the bric-à-brac. + + “Perhaps you can write to me.” + My self-possession flares up for a second; + This is as I had reckoned. + “I have been wondering frequently of late + (But our beginnings never know our ends!) + Why we have not developed into friends.” + I feel like one who smiles, and turning shall remark + Suddenly, his expression in a glass. + My self-possession gutters; we are really in the dark. + + “For everybody said so, all our friends, + They all were sure our feelings would relate + So closely! I myself can hardly understand. + We must leave it now to fate. + You will write, at any rate. + Perhaps it is not too late, + I shall sit here, serving tea to friends.” + + And I must borrow every changing + find expression ... dance, dance + Like a dancing bear, + Cry like a parrot, chatter like an ape. + Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance— + + Well! and what if she should die some afternoon, + Afternoon grey and smoky, evening yellow and rose; + Should die and leave me sitting pen in hand + With the smoke coming down above the housetops; + Doubtful, for quite a while + Not knowing what to feel or if I understand + Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon ... + Would she not have the advantage, after all? + This music is successful with a “dying fall” + Now that we talk of dying— + And should I have the right to smile? +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"></a> + Preludes + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + The winter evening settles down + With smell of steaks in passageways. + Six o’clock. + The burnt-out ends of smoky days. + And now a gusty shower wraps + The grimy scraps + Of withered leaves about your feet + And newspapers from vacant lots; + The showers beat + On broken blinds and chimney-pots, + And at the corner of the street + A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps. + And then the lighting of the lamps. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + The morning comes to consciousness + Of faint stale smells of beer + From the sawdust-trampled street + With all its muddy feet that press + To early coffee-stands. + With the other masquerades + That time resumes, + One thinks of all the hands + That are raising dingy shades + In a thousand furnished rooms. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III + + You tossed a blanket from the bed, + You lay upon your back, and waited; + You dozed, and watched the night revealing + The thousand sordid images + Of which your soul was constituted; + They flickered against the ceiling. + And when all the world came back + And the light crept up between the shutters, + And you heard the sparrows in the gutters, + You had such a vision of the street + As the street hardly understands; + Sitting along the bed’s edge, where + You curled the papers from your hair, + Or clasped the yellow soles of feet + In the palms of both soiled hands. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV + + His soul stretched tight across the skies + That fade behind a city block, + Or trampled by insistent feet + At four and five and six o’clock + And short square fingers stuffing pipes, + And evening newspapers, and eyes + Assured of certain certainties, + The conscience of a blackened street + Impatient to assume the world. + I am moved by fancies that are curled + Around these images, and cling: + The notion of some infinitely gentle + Infinitely suffering thing. + Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh; + The worlds revolve like ancient women + Gathering fuel in vacant lots. +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"></a> + Rhapsody on a Windy Night + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Twelve o’clock. + Along the reaches of the street + Held in a lunar synthesis, + Whispering lunar incantations + Dissolve the floors of the memory + And all its clear relations, + Its divisions and precisions, + Every street lamp that I pass + Beats like a fatalistic drum, + And through the spaces of the dark + Midnight shakes the memory + As a madman shakes a dead geranium. + + Half-past one, + The street lamp sputtered, + The street lamp muttered, + The street lamp said, + “Regard that woman + Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door + Which opens on her like a grin. + You see the border of her dress + Is torn and stained with sand, + And you see the corner of her eye + Twists like a crooked pin.” + + The memory throws up high and dry + A crowd of twisted things; + A twisted branch upon the beach + Eaten smooth, and polished + As if the world gave up + The secret of its skeleton, + Stiff and white. + A broken spring in a factory yard, + Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left + Hard and curled and ready to snap. + + Half-past two, + The street lamp said, + “Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter, + Slips out its tongue + And devours a morsel of rancid butter.” + So the hand of a child, automatic + Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay. + I could see nothing behind that child’s eye. + I have seen eyes in the street + Trying to peer through lighted shutters, + And a crab one afternoon in a pool, + An old crab with barnacles on his back, + Gripped the end of a stick which I held him. + + Half-past three, + The lamp sputtered, + The lamp muttered in the dark. + + The lamp hummed: + “Regard the moon, + La lune ne garde aucune rancune, + She winks a feeble eye, + She smiles into corners. + She smoothes the hair of the grass. + The moon has lost her memory. + A washed-out smallpox cracks her face, + Her hand twists a paper rose, + That smells of dust and old Cologne, + She is alone + With all the old nocturnal smells + That cross and cross across her brain. + The reminiscence comes + Of sunless dry geraniums + And dust in crevices, + Smells of chestnuts in the streets, + And female smells in shuttered rooms, + And cigarettes in corridors + And cocktail smells in bars.” + + The lamp said, + “Four o’clock, + Here is the number on the door. + Memory! + You have the key, + The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair, + Mount. + The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall + Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life.” + + The last twist of the knife. +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"></a> + Morning at the Window + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens, + And along the trampled edges of the street + I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids + Sprouting despondently at area gates. + + The brown waves of fog toss up to me + Twisted faces from the bottom of the street, + And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts + An aimless smile that hovers in the air + And vanishes along the level of the roofs. +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"></a> + The Boston Evening Transcript + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The readers of the Boston Evening Transcript + Sway in the blind like a field of ripe corn. + When evening quickens faintly in the street, + Wakening the appetites of life in some + And to others bringing the Boston Evening Transcript, + I mount the steps and ring the bell, turning + Wearily, as one would turn to nod good-bye to Rochefoucauld + If the street were time and he at the end of the street, + And I say, “Cousin Harriet, here is the Boston Evening Transcript.” +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"></a> + Aunt Helen + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Miss Helen Slingsby was my maiden aunt, + And lived in a small house near a fashionable square + Cared for by servants to the number of four. + Now when she died there was silence in heaven + And silence at her end of the street. + The shutters were drawn and the undertaker wiped his feet— + He was aware that this sort of thing had occurred before. + The dogs were handsomely provided for, + But shortly afterwards the parrot died too. + The Dresden clock continued ticking on the mantelpiece, + And the footman sat upon the dining-table + Holding the second housemaid on his knees— + Who had always been so careful while her mistress lived. +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"></a> + Cousin Nancy + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Miss Nancy Ellicot + Strode across the hills and broke them + Rode across the hills and broke them— + The barren New England hills + Riding to hounds + Over the cow-pasture. + + Miss Nancy Ellicott smoked + And danced all the modern dances; + And her aunts were not quite sure how they felt about it, + But they knew that it was modern. + + Upon the glazen shelves kept watch + Matthew and Waldo, guardians of the faith, + The army of unalterable law. +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"></a> + Mr. Apollinax + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When Mr. Apollinax visited the United States + His laughter tinkled among the teacups. + I thought of Fragilion, that shy figure among the birch-trees, + And of Priapus in the shrubbery + Gaping at the lady in the swing. + In the palace of Mrs. Phlaccus, at Professor Channing-Cheetah’s + He laughed like an irresponsible foetus. + His laughter was submarine and profound + Like the old man of the seats + Hidden under coral islands + Where worried bodies of drowned men drift down in the green silence, + Dropping from fingers of surf. + I looked for the head of Mr. Apollinax rolling under a chair, + Or grinning over a screen + With seaweed in its hair. + I heard the beat of centaurs’ hoofs over the hard turf + As his dry and passionate talk devoured the afternoon. + “He is a charming man”—“But after all what did he mean?”— + “He has pointed ears ... he must be unbalanced,”— + “There was something he said that I might have challenged.” + Of dowager Mrs. Phlaccus, and Professor and Mrs. Cheetah + I remember a slice of lemon and a bitten macaroon. +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"></a> + Hysteria + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her laughter and + being part of it, until her teeth were only accidental stars with a + talent for squad-drill. I was drawn in by short gasps, inhaled at + each momentary recovery, lost finally in the dark caverns of her + throat, bruised by the ripple of unseen muscles. An elderly waiter + with trembling hands was hurriedly spreading a pink and white checked + cloth over the rusty green iron table, saying: “If the lady and + gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden, if the lady and + gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden ...” I decided that + if the shaking of her breasts could be stopped, some of the fragments + of the afternoon might be collected, and I concentrated my attention + with careful subtlety to this end. +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"></a> + Conversation Galante + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I observe: “Our sentimental friend the moon + Or possibly (fantastic, I confess) + It may be Prester John’s balloon + Or an old battered lantern hung aloft + To light poor travellers to their distress.” + She then: “How you digress!” + + And I then: “Some one frames upon the keys + That exquisite nocturne, with which we explain + The night and moonshine; music which we seize + To body forth our own vacuity.” + She then: “Does this refer to me?” + “Oh no, it is I who am inane.” + + “You, madam, are the eternal humorist + The eternal enemy of the absolute, + Giving our vagrant moods the slightest twist + With your air indifferent and imperious + At a stroke our mad poetics to confute—” + And—“Are we then so serious?” +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"></a> + La Figlia Che Piange + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Stand on the highest pavement of the stair— + Lean on a garden urn— + Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair— + Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise— + Fling them to the ground and turn + With a fugitive resentment in your eyes: + But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair. + + So I would have had him leave, + So I would have had her stand and grieve, + So he would have left + As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised + As the mind deserts the body it has used. + I should find + Some way incomparably light and deft, + Some way we both should understand, + Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand. + + She turned away, but with the autumn weather + Compelled my imagination many days, + Many days and many hours: + Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers. + And I wonder how they should have been together! + I should have lost a gesture and a pose. + Sometimes these cogitations still amaze + The troubled midnight and the noon’s repose. +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + + <div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1459 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + |