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O
western
wind
,
when
wilt
thou
blow
,
That
the
small
rain
down
can
rain
?
'
Percival
was
flowering
with
green
leaves
and
was
laid
in
the
earth
with
all
his
branches
still
sighing
in
the
summer
wind
.
Rhoda
,
with
whom
I
shared
silence
when
the
others
spoke
,
she
who
hung
back
and
turned
aside
when
the
herd
assembled
and
galloped
with
orderly
,
sleek
backs
over
the
rich
pastures
,
has
gone
now
like
the
desert
heat
.
When
the
sun
blisters
the
roofs
of
the
city
I
think
of
her
;
when
the
dry
leaves
patter
to
the
ground
;
when
the
old
men
come
with
pointed
sticks
and
pierce
little
bits
of
paper
as
we
pierced
her
--
O
western
wind
,
when
wilt
thou
blow
,
That
the
small
rain
down
can
rain
?
Christ
,
that
my
love
were
in
my
arms
,
And
I
in
my
bed
again
!
I
return
now
to
my
book
;
I
return
now
to
my
attempt
.
'
'
Oh
,
life
,
how
I
have
dreaded
you
,
'
said
Rhoda
,
'
oh
,
human
beings
,
how
I
have
hated
you
!
How
you
have
nudged
,
how
you
have
interrupted
,
how
hideous
you
have
looked
in
Oxford
Street
,
how
squalid
sitting
opposite
each
other
staring
in
the
Tube
!
Now
as
I
climb
this
mountain
,
from
the
top
of
which
I
shall
see
Africa
,
my
mind
is
printed
with
brown-paper
parcels
and
your
faces
.
I
have
been
stained
by
you
and
corrupted
.
You
smelt
so
unpleasant
too
,
lining
up
outside
doors
to
buy
tickets
.
All
were
dressed
in
indeterminate
shades
of
grey
and
brown
,
never
even
a
blue
feather
pinned
to
a
hat
.
None
had
the
courage
to
be
one
thing
rather
than
another
.
What
dissolution
of
the
soul
you
demanded
in
order
to
get
through
one
day
,
what
lies
,
bowings
,
scrapings
,
fluency
and
servility
!
How
you
chained
me
to
one
spot
,
one
hour
,
one
chair
,
and
sat
yourselves
down
opposite
!
How
you
snatched
from
me
the
white
spaces
that
lie
between
hour
and
hour
and
rolled
them
into
dirty
pellets
and
tossed
them
into
the
waste-paper
basket
with
your
greasy
paws
.
Yet
those
were
my
life
.
