Whytry to lift my foot and mount the
stair?
That little man with ablue chin has a right hand
that is withered.
I shall assemble a few words andforge round us a
hammered ring of beaten steel.
The hatchet must fall on the block; the oak must
becleft to the centre. We are infinitely abject,shuffling past with our eyes
shut.
Now, through my own infirmity Irecover what he was
to me: my opposite. There stands the tree which I cannot pass.
I hope to inherit an arm-chairand a Turkey carpet.
I smell roses; I smell violets; I see red and blue justhidden. About him my feeling
was: hesat there in the centre. Hence our loneliness; hence
ourdesolation.
I am blown like a leaf by the gale; nowbrushing the
wet grass, now whirled up.
Nothing thathas been said meets our
case.
I am going to push out into theheterogeneous
crowd.
Lookat the firelight running up and down the gold
thread in the curtain.
Arrows ofsensation strike from my spine, but
without order.
Hence our loneliness; hence
ourdesolation.
Now theypaused in their song as if glutted with
sound, as if the fullnessof midday had gorged them. The green pot bulged enormously,
with itswhite window elongated in its side. Already I no longer cry with conviction,
What luck!
I will pacethis terrace and watch the ships bowling
down the tide.
The dragon-fly poised motionless over areed, then
shot its blue stitch further through the air. Why, look, said Neville, at the clock
ticking on the mantelpiece?
Happiness is in it, said Neville, and the quiet of
ordinarythings.
I must be able to say,Percival, a ridiculous name.
The houses are lightly founded to bepuffed over by a breath of air.
He says, looking at thepeople passing, he will
shepherd us if we will follow. Break one andyou shatter a thousand pounds. The
common fund of experience is very deep.
And I could believethat beauty is once more set
flowing.
A womanwalks on deck, with a dog barking round
her.
Meeting and parting, we assemble different forms,
makedifferent patterns.
Now the shadow has fallen and the purple light
slants downwards. Toys I twist, bubbles I blow, onering passing through
another.
That was themost perfect of our meetings. Hence our
loneliness; hence ourdesolation.