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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Стр. 71/821
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Spurned
lover
.
I
was
a
strapping
young
gossoon
at
that
time
,
I
tell
you
.
I
’
ll
show
you
my
likeness
one
day
.
I
was
,
faith
.
Lover
,
for
her
love
he
prowled
with
colonel
Richard
Burke
,
tanist
of
his
sept
,
under
the
walls
of
Clerkenwell
and
,
crouching
,
saw
a
flame
of
vengeance
hurl
them
upward
in
the
fog
.
Shattered
glass
and
toppling
masonry
.
In
gay
Paree
he
hides
,
Egan
of
Paris
,
unsought
by
any
save
by
me
.
Making
his
day
’
s
stations
,
the
dingy
printingcase
,
his
three
taverns
,
the
Montmartre
lair
he
sleeps
short
night
in
,
rue
de
la
Goutte
-
d
’
Or
,
damascened
with
flyblown
faces
of
the
gone
.
Loveless
,
landless
,
wifeless
.
She
is
quite
nicey
comfy
without
her
outcast
man
,
madame
in
rue
Gît
-
le
-
Cœur
,
canary
and
two
buck
lodgers
.
Peachy
cheeks
,
a
zebra
skirt
,
frisky
as
a
young
thing
’
s
.
Spurned
and
undespairing
.
Tell
Pat
you
saw
me
,
won
’
t
you
?
I
wanted
to
get
poor
Pat
a
job
one
time
.
Mon
fils
,
soldier
of
France
.
I
taught
him
to
sing
The
boys
of
Kilkenny
are
stout
roaring
blades
.
Know
that
old
lay
?
I
taught
Patrice
that
.
Old
Kilkenny
:
saint
Canice
,
Strongbow
’
s
castle
on
the
Nore
.
Goes
like
this
.
O
,
O
.
He
takes
me
,
Napper
Tandy
,
by
the
hand
.
O
,
O
the
boys
of
Kilkenny
.
.
.
Weak
wasting
hand
on
mine
.
They
have
forgotten
Kevin
Egan
,
not
he
them
.
Remembering
thee
,
O
Sion
.
He
had
come
nearer
the
edge
of
the
sea
and
wet
sand
slapped
his
boots
.
The
new
air
greeted
him
,
harping
in
wild
nerves
,
wind
of
wild
air
of
seeds
of
brightness
.
Here
,
I
am
not
walking
out
to
the
Kish
lightship
,
am
I
?
He
stood
suddenly
,
his
feet
beginning
to
sink
slowly
in
the
quaking
soil
.
Turn
back
.
Turning
,
he
scanned
the
shore
south
,
his
feet
sinking
again
slowly
in
new
sockets
.
The
cold
domed
room
of
the
tower
waits
.
Through
the
barbacans
the
shafts
of
light
are
moving
ever
,
slowly
ever
as
my
feet
are
sinking
,
creeping
duskward
over
the
dial
floor
.
Blue
dusk
,
nightfall
,
deep
blue
night
.
In
the
darkness
of
the
dome
they
wait
,
their
pushedback
chairs
,
my
obelisk
valise
,
around
a
board
of
abandoned
platters
.
Who
to
clear
it
?
He
has
the
key
.
I
will
not
sleep
there
when
this
night
comes
.
A
shut
door
of
a
silent
tower
,
entombing
their
blind
bodies
,
the
panthersahib
and
his
pointer
.
Call
:
no
answer
.
He
lifted
his
feet
up
from
the
suck
and
turned
back
by
the
mole
of
boulders
.
Take
all
,
keep
all
.
My
soul
walks
with
me
,
form
of
forms
.
So
in
the
moon
’
s
midwatches
I
pace
the
path
above
the
rocks
,
in
sable
silvered
,
hearing
Elsinore
’
s
tempting
flood
.
The
flood
is
following
me
.
I
can
watch
it
flow
past
from
here
.
Get
back
then
by
the
Poolbeg
road
to
the
strand
there
.
He
climbed
over
the
sedge
and
eely
oarweeds
and
sat
on
a
stool
of
rock
,
resting
his
ashplant
in
a
grike
.
A
bloated
carcass
of
a
dog
lay
lolled
on
bladderwrack
.
Before
him
the
gunwale
of
a
boat
,
sunk
in
sand
.
Un
coche
ensablé
Louis
Veuillot
called
Gautier
’
s
prose
.
These
heavy
sands
are
language
tide
and
wind
have
silted
here
.
And
these
,
the
stoneheaps
of
dead
builders
,
a
warren
of
weasel
rats
.
Hide
gold
there
.
Try
it
.
You
have
some
.
Sands
and
stones
.
Heavy
of
the
past
.
Sir
Lout
’
s
toys
.
Mind
you
don
’
t
get
one
bang
on
the
ear
.
I
’
m
the
bloody
well
gigant
rolls
all
them
bloody
well
boulders
,
bones
for
my
steppingstones
.
Feefawfum
.
I
zmellz
de
bloodz
odz
an
Iridzman
.
A
point
,
live
dog
,
grew
into
sight
running
across
the
sweep
of
sand
.
Lord
,
is
he
going
to
attack
me
?
Respect
his
liberty
.
You
will
not
be
master
of
others
or
their
slave
.
I
have
my
stick
.
Sit
tight
.
From
farther
away
,
walking
shoreward
across
from
the
crested
tide
,
figures
,
two
.
The
two
maries
.
They
have
tucked
it
safe
mong
the
bulrushes
.
Peekaboo
.
I
see
you
.
No
,
the
dog
.
He
is
running
back
to
them
.
Who
?
