Волны

           Theyarenotlikepoets--scapegoats;theyarenotchainedtotherock.Hencethesilence,thesublimity.YetthatcrimsonmusthaveburntinTitian’sgizzard.Nodoubtherosewiththegreatarmsholdingthecornucopia,andfell,inthatdescent.Butthesilenceweighsonme--theperpetualsolicitationoftheeye.Thepressureisintermittentandmuffled.Idistinguishtoolittleandtoovaguely.ThebellispressedandIdonotringorgiveoutirrelevantclamoursalljangled.Iamtitillatedinordinatelybysomesplendour;theruffledcrimsonagainstthegreenlining;themarchofpillars:theorangelightbehindtheblack,prickedearsoftheolivetrees.Arrowsofsensationstrikefrommyspine,butwithoutorder.

           ’Yetsomethingisaddedtomyinterpretation.Somethingliesdeeplyburied.ForonemomentIthoughttograspit.Butburyit,buryit;letitbreed,hiddeninthedepthsofmymindsomedaytofructify.Afteralonglifetime,loosely,inamomentofrevelation,Imaylayhandsonit,butnowtheideabreaksinmyhand.Ideasbreakathousandtimesforoncethattheyglobethemselvesentire.Theybreak:theyfalloverme."Lineandcolourstheysurvive,therefore..."

           ’Iamyawning.Iamgluttedwithsensations.Iamexhaustedwiththestrainandthelong,longtime--twenty-fiveminutes,halfanhour--thatIhaveheldmyselfaloneoutsidethemachine.Igrownumb;Igrowstiff.HowshallIbreakupthisnumbnesswhichdiscreditsmysympatheticheart?Thereareotherssuffering--multitudesofpeoplesuffering.Nevillesuffers.HelovedPercival.