Rhapsody on a Windy Night

Lunar incantations dissolve the floors Of memory and their pleas beat Like laundry upon a line. White moths Are shaken out of the palms of the hands. Memory! you have the key to the house Where I was born; you have the key to the house Where I grew up, and memory unlocks The rooms and sheds the dust of a thousand years.

The old man rises at dawn and moves From the window to the window, inspecting the street. He has his hands in his pockets; He pats his pockets like a child that has lost a toy. I have dreamed of your voice in the dark, Of a hand upon a window-pane. The light grows And the room begins to fill with sound.

The street lamp sputtered, the street lamp muttered, The street lamp said, 'Regard that woman Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door Which opens on her like a grin.' I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, And snicker, and in short, the world Is a memory of a face which I have forgotten.

The moon has lost her memory. The moon Has forgotten her laws; the moon has lost her voice. The moon has forgotten the rhythm of the seas. The street repeats the images of its own desolation Like a man repeating a phrase to himself Before sleep has taken him and the teeth of the wind do their work upon the window-glass.

The evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; the street-rubber Sticks to the pavement, leaves smear the gutter, And the streetlamp glares, and the leaves move Like the hands of dead men in the dark. I have a rendezvous with Death. The world's memory of me is a face in oblivion.

My friend, you are in the city where the shadows Lengthen and it is always dusk. You will not see The full sky. You will not know the stars. You will not know the names of the flowers. The lamp sputters and the lamp gutters, And a crack runs from the marble down into the street. The thin man with a gold top-hat passes by.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, had a bad cold, Nevertheless is known to be titled. He thrusts His hand into his pocket and feels for a charm. The cab is at the door. The driver calls. The lamp sputters and the fog begins to come, And the moon rolls like a ball of blood across the sky.

Memory rations out the days and nights, Hands that were empty are now full of emblems, Eyes that were closed open to the light. I have seen the night-birds perched upon the roofs, And the houses crouch together like dogs in misery. The moonlight in the wet paving makes a skeleton of the pavement. The air is full of little noises.

The woman who waits at the corner with a parcel Has a face like a cup of water. The street Is full of people with their shoes half off. A dog barks in the distance, someone laughs, someone curses. The lamp sputters and explodes; a light goes out. The man who opened a door with his hand discovers it locked. The world is a punctured dream.