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The
meat
is
stood
in
the
oven
;
the
bread
rises
in
a
soft
dome
under
the
clean
towel
.
I
walk
in
the
afternoon
down
to
the
river
.
All
the
world
is
breeding
.
The
flies
are
going
from
grass
to
grass
.
The
flowers
are
thick
with
pollen
.
The
swans
ride
the
stream
in
order
.
The
clouds
,
warm
now
,
sun-spotted
,
sweep
over
the
hills
,
leaving
gold
in
the
water
,
and
gold
on
the
necks
of
the
swans
.
Pushing
one
foot
before
the
other
,
the
cows
munch
their
way
across
the
field
.
I
feel
through
the
grass
for
the
white-domed
mushroom
;
and
break
its
stalk
and
pick
the
purple
orchid
that
grows
beside
it
and
lay
the
orchid
by
the
mushroom
with
the
earth
at
its
root
,
and
so
home
to
make
the
kettle
boil
for
my
father
among
the
just
reddened
roses
on
the
tea-table
.
'
But
evening
comes
and
the
lamps
are
lit
.
And
when
evening
comes
and
the
lamps
are
lit
they
make
a
yellow
fire
in
the
ivy
.
I
sit
with
my
sewing
by
the
table
.
I
think
of
Jinny
;
of
Rhoda
;
and
hear
the
rattle
of
wheels
on
the
pavement
as
the
farm
horses
plod
home
;
I
hear
traffic
roaring
in
the
evening
wind
.
I
look
at
the
quivering
leaves
in
the
dark
garden
and
think
"
They
dance
in
London
.
Jinny
kisses
Louis
"
.
'
'
How
strange
,
'
said
Jinny
,
'
that
people
should
sleep
,
that
people
should
put
out
the
lights
and
go
upstairs
.
They
have
taken
off
their
dresses
,
they
have
put
on
white
nightgowns
.
There
are
no
lights
in
any
of
these
houses
.
There
is
a
line
of
chimney-pots
against
the
sky
;
and
a
street
lamp
or
two
burning
,
as
lamps
burn
when
nobody
needs
them
.
The
only
people
in
the
streets
are
poor
people
hurrying
.
There
is
no
one
coming
or
going
in
this
street
;
the
day
is
over
.
A
few
policemen
stand
at
the
corners
.
Yet
night
is
beginning
.
I
feel
myself
shining
in
the
dark
.
Silk
is
on
my
knee
.
My
silk
legs
rub
smoothly
together
.
The
stones
of
a
necklace
lie
cold
on
my
throat
.
My
feet
feel
the
pinch
of
shoes
.
I
sit
bolt
upright
so
that
my
hair
may
not
touch
the
back
of
the
seat
.
I
am
arrayed
,
I
am
prepared
.
This
is
the
momentary
pause
;
the
dark
moment
.
The
fiddlers
have
lifted
their
bows
.
'N
ow
the
car
slides
to
a
stop
.
A
strip
of
pavement
is
lighted
.
The
door
is
opening
and
shutting
.
People
are
arriving
;
they
do
not
speak
;
they
hasten
in
.
There
is
the
swishing
sound
of
cloaks
falling
in
the
hall
.
This
is
the
prelude
,
this
is
the
beginning
.
I
glance
,
I
peep
,
I
powder
.
All
is
exact
,
prepared
.
My
hair
is
swept
in
one
curve
.
My
lips
are
precisely
red
.
I
am
ready
now
to
join
men
and
women
on
the
stairs
,
my
peers
.
I
pass
them
,
exposed
to
their
gaze
,
as
they
are
to
mine
.
Like
lightning
we
look
but
do
not
soften
or
show
signs
of
recognition
.
Our
bodies
communicate
.
This
is
my
calling
.
This
is
my
world
.
All
is
decided
and
ready
;
the
servants
,
standing
here
,
and
again
here
,
take
my
name
,
my
fresh
,
my
unknown
name
,
and
toss
it
before
me
.
I
enter
.
'
Here
are
gilt
chairs
in
the
empty
,
the
expectant
rooms
,
and
flowers
,
stiller
,
statelier
,
than
flowers
that
grow
,
spread
green
,
spread
white
,
against
the
walls
.
And
on
one
small
table
is
one
bound
book
.
This
is
what
I
have
dreamt
;
this
is
what
I
have
foretold
.
I
am
native
here
.
I
tread
naturally
on
thick
carpets
.
I
slide
easily
on
smooth-polished
floors
,
I
now
begin
to
unfurl
,
in
this
scent
,
in
this
radiance
,
as
a
fern
when
its
curled
leaves
unfurl
.
I
stop
.
I
take
stock
of
this
world
.
I
look
among
the
groups
of
unknown
people
.
Among
the
lustrous
green
,
pink
,
pearl-grey
women
stand
upright
the
bodies
of
men
.
They
are
black
and
white
;
they
are
grooved
beneath
their
clothes
with
deep
rills
.
I
feel
again
the
reflection
in
the
window
of
the
tunnel
;
it
moves
.
The
black-and-white
figures
of
unknown
men
look
at
me
as
I
lean
forward
;
as
I
turn
aside
to
look
at
a
picture
,
they
turn
too
.
Their
hands
go
fluttering
to
their
ties
.
They
touch
their
waistcoats
,
their
pocket-handkerchiefs
.
They
are
very
young
.
They
are
anxious
to
make
a
good
impression
.
I
feel
a
thousand
capacities
spring
up
in
me
.
I
am
arch
,
gay
,
languid
,
melancholy
by
turns
.
I
am
rooted
,
but
I
flow
.
All
gold
,
flowing
that
way
,
I
say
to
this
one
,
"
Come
.
"
Rippling
black
,
I
say
to
that
one
,
"
No
.
"
One
breaks
off
from
his
station
under
the
glass
cabinet
.
He
approaches
.
He
makes
towards
me
.
This
is
the
most
exciting
moment
I
have
ever
known
.
I
flutter
.
I
ripple
.
I
stream
like
a
plant
in
the
river
,
flowing
this
way
,
flowing
that
way
,
but
rooted
,
so
that
he
may
come
to
me
.
"
Come
,
"
I
say
,
"
come
.
"
Pale
,
with
dark
hair
,
the
one
who
is
coming
is
melancholy
,
romantic
.
And
I
am
arch
and
fluent
and
capricious
;
for
he
is
melancholy
,
he
is
romantic
.
He
is
here
;
he
stands
at
my
side
.
'N
ow
with
a
little
jerk
,
like
a
limpet
broken
from
a
rock
,
I
am
broken
off
:
I
fall
with
him
;
I
am
carried
off
.
We
yield
to
this
slow
flood
.
We
go
in
and
out
of
this
hesitating
music
.
Rocks
break
the
current
of
the
dance
;
it
jars
,
it
shivers
.
In
and
out
,
we
are
swept
now
into
this
large
figure
;
it
holds
us
together
;
we
can
not
step
outside
its
sinuous
,
its
hesitating
,
its
abrupt
,
its
perfectly
encircling
walls
.
Our
bodies
,
his
hard
,
mine
flowing
,
are
pressed
together
within
its
body
;
it
holds
us
together
;
and
then
lengthening
out
,
in
smooth
,
in
sinuous
folds
,
rolls
us
between
it
,
on
and
on
.
Suddenly
the
music
breaks
.
My
blood
runs
on
but
my
body
stands
still
.
The
room
reels
past
my
eyes
.
It
stops
.
'
Come
,
then
,
let
us
wander
whirling
to
the
gilt
chairs
.
The
body
is
stronger
than
I
thought
.
I
am
dizzier
than
I
supposed
.
I
do
not
care
for
anything
in
the
world
.
I
do
not
care
for
anybody
save
this
man
whose
name
I
do
not
know
.
Are
we
not
acceptable
,
moon
?
Are
we
not
lovely
sitting
together
here
,
I
in
my
satin
;
he
in
black
and
white
?
My
peers
may
look
at
me
now
.
I
look
straight
back
at
you
,
men
and
women
.
I
am
one
of
you
.
This
is
my
world
.
Now
I
take
this
thin-stemmed
glass
and
sip
.
Wine
has
a
drastic
,
an
astringent
taste
.
I
can
not
help
wincing
as
I
drink
.
Scent
and
flowers
,
radiance
and
heat
,
are
distilled
here
to
a
fiery
,
to
a
yellow
liquid
.
Just
behind
my
shoulder-blades
some
dry
thing
,
wide-eyed
,
gently
closes
,
gradually
lulls
itself
to
sleep
.
This
is
rapture
;
this
is
relief
.
The
bar
at
the
back
of
my
throat
lowers
itself
.
Words
crowd
and
cluster
and
push
forth
one
on
top
of
another
.
It
does
not
matter
which
.
They
jostle
and
mount
on
each
other
's
shoulders
.
The
single
and
the
solitary
mate
,
tumble
and
become
many
.
It
does
not
matter
what
I
say
.
Crowding
,
like
a
fluttering
bird
,
one
sentence
crosses
the
empty
space
between
us
.
It
settles
on
his
lips
.
