Tea At The Palaz Of Hoon
Not less because in purple I descended
What was the ointment sprinkled on my beard?
Out of my mind the golden ointment rained,
I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw
Wallace Stevens
The western day through what you called
The loneliest air, not less was I myself.
What were the hymns that buzzed beside my ears?
What was the sea whose tide swept through me there?
And my ears made the blowing hymns they heard.
I was myself the compass of that sea:
Or heard or felt came not but from myself;
And there I found myself more truly and more strange.
No comments:
Post a Comment