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'
But
now
in
this
room
,
which
I
enter
without
knocking
,
things
are
said
as
if
they
had
been
written
.
I
go
to
the
bookcase
.
If
I
choose
,
I
read
half
a
page
of
anything
.
I
need
not
speak
.
But
I
listen
.
I
am
marvellously
on
the
alert
.
Certainly
,
one
can
not
read
this
poem
without
effort
.
The
page
is
often
corrupt
and
mud-stained
,
and
torn
and
stuck
together
with
faded
leaves
,
with
scraps
of
verbena
or
geranium
.
To
read
this
poem
one
must
have
myriad
eyes
,
like
one
of
those
lamps
that
turn
on
slabs
of
racing
water
at
midnight
in
the
Atlantic
,
when
perhaps
only
a
spray
of
seaweed
pricks
the
surface
,
or
suddenly
the
waves
gape
and
up
shoulders
a
monster
.
One
must
put
aside
antipathies
and
jealousies
and
not
interrupt
.
One
must
have
patience
and
infinite
care
and
let
the
light
sound
,
whether
of
spiders
'
delicate
feet
on
a
leaf
or
the
chuckle
of
water
in
some
irrelevant
drain-pipe
,
unfold
too
.
Nothing
is
to
be
rejected
in
fear
or
horror
.
The
poet
who
has
written
this
page
(
what
I
read
with
people
talking
)
has
withdrawn
.
There
are
no
commas
or
semi-colons
.
The
lines
do
not
run
in
convenient
lengths
.
Much
is
sheer
nonsense
.
One
must
be
sceptical
,
but
throw
caution
to
the
winds
and
when
the
door
opens
accept
absolutely
.
Also
sometimes
weep
;
also
cut
away
ruthlessly
with
a
slice
of
the
blade
soot
,
bark
,
hard
accretions
of
all
sorts
.
And
so
(
while
they
talk
)
let
down
one
's
net
deeper
and
deeper
and
gently
draw
in
and
bring
to
the
surface
what
he
said
and
she
said
and
make
poetry
.
'N
ow
I
have
listened
to
them
talking
.
They
have
gone
now
.
I
am
alone
.
I
could
be
content
to
watch
the
fire
burn
for
ever
,
like
a
dome
,
like
a
furnace
;
now
some
spike
of
wood
takes
the
look
of
a
scaffold
,
or
pit
,
or
happy
valley
;
now
it
is
a
serpent
curled
crimson
with
white
scales
.
The
fruit
on
the
curtain
swells
beneath
the
parrot
's
beak
.
Cheep
,
cheep
,
creaks
the
fire
,
like
the
cheep
of
insects
in
the
middle
of
a
forest
.
Cheep
,
cheep
,
it
clicks
while
out
there
the
branches
thrash
the
air
,
and
now
,
like
a
volley
of
shot
,
a
tree
falls
.
These
are
the
sounds
of
a
London
night
.
Then
I
hear
the
one
sound
I
wait
for
.
Up
and
up
it
comes
,
approaches
,
hesitates
,
stops
at
my
door
.
I
cry
,
"
Come
in
.
Sit
by
me
.
Sit
on
the
edge
of
the
chair
.
"
Swept
away
by
the
old
hallucination
,
I
cry
,
"
Come
closer
,
closer
"
.
'
'
I
come
back
from
the
office
,
'
said
Louis
.
'
I
hang
my
coat
here
,
place
my
stick
there
--
I
like
to
fancy
that
Richelieu
walked
with
such
a
cane
.
Thus
I
divest
myself
of
my
authority
.
I
have
been
sitting
at
the
right
hand
of
a
director
at
a
varnished
table
.
The
maps
of
our
successful
undertakings
confront
us
on
the
wall
.
We
have
laced
the
world
together
with
our
ships
.
The
globe
is
strung
with
our
lines
.
I
am
immensely
respectable
.
All
the
young
ladies
in
the
office
acknowledge
my
entrance
.
I
can
dine
where
I
like
now
,
and
without
vanity
may
suppose
that
I
shall
soon
acquire
a
house
in
Surrey
,
two
cars
,
a
conservatory
and
some
rare
species
of
melon
.
But
I
still
return
,
I
still
come
back
to
my
attic
,
hang
up
my
hat
and
resume
in
solitude
that
curious
attempt
which
I
have
made
since
I
brought
down
my
fist
on
my
master
's
grained
oak
door
.
I
open
a
little
book
.
I
read
one
poem
.
One
poem
is
enough
.
O
western
wind
...
O
western
wind
,
you
are
at
enmity
with
my
mahogany
table
and
spats
,
and
also
,
alas
,
with
the
vulgarity
of
my
mistress
,
the
little
actress
,
who
has
never
been
able
to
speak
English
correctly
--
O
western
wind
,
when
wilt
thou
blow
...
Rhoda
,
with
her
intense
abstraction
,
with
her
unseeing
eyes
the
colour
of
snail
's
flesh
,
does
not
destroy
you
,
western
wind
,
whether
she
comes
at
midnight
when
the
stars
blaze
or
at
the
most
prosaic
hour
of
midday
.
She
stands
at
the
window
and
looks
at
the
chimney-pots
and
the
broken
windows
in
the
houses
of
poor
people
--
O
western
wind
,
when
wilt
thou
blow
...
