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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Улисс
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- Стр. 394/821
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In
drowsy
silence
gold
bent
on
her
page
.
From
the
saloon
a
call
came
,
long
in
dying
.
That
was
a
tuningfork
the
tuner
had
that
he
forgot
that
he
now
struck
.
A
call
again
.
That
he
now
poised
that
it
now
throbbed
.
You
hear
?
It
throbbed
,
pure
,
purer
,
softly
and
softlier
,
its
buzzing
prongs
.
Longer
in
dying
call
.
Pat
paid
for
diner
’
s
popcorked
bottle
:
and
over
tumbler
,
tray
and
popcorked
bottle
ere
he
went
he
whispered
,
bald
and
bothered
,
with
miss
Douce
.
—
The
bright
stars
fade
.
.
.
A
voiceless
song
sang
from
within
,
singing
:
—
.
.
.
the
morn
is
breaking
.
A
duodene
of
birdnotes
chirruped
bright
treble
answer
under
sensitive
hands
.
Brightly
the
keys
,
all
twinkling
,
linked
,
all
harpsichording
,
called
to
a
voice
to
sing
the
strain
of
dewy
morn
,
of
youth
,
of
love
’
s
leavetaking
,
life
’
s
,
love
’
s
morn
.
—
The
dewdrops
pearl
.
.
.
Lenehan
’
s
lips
over
the
counter
lisped
a
low
whistle
of
decoy
.
—
But
look
this
way
,
he
said
,
rose
of
Castile
.
