Волны

           Thestructureisnowvisible;whatisinchoateisherestated;wearenotsovariousorsomean;wehavemadeoblongsandstoodthemuponsquares.Thisisourtriumph;thisisourconsolation.

           Thesweetnessofthiscontentoverflowingrunsdownthewallsofmymind,andliberatesunderstanding.Wandernomore,Isay;thisistheend.Theoblonghasbeensetuponthesquare;thespiralisontop.Wehavebeenhauledovertheshingle,downtothesea.Theplayerscomeagain.Buttheyaremoppingtheirfaces.Theyarenolongersospruceorsodebonair.Iwillgo.Iwillsetasidethisafternoon.Iwillmakeapilgrimage.IwillgotoGreenwich.Iwillflingmyselffearlesslyintotrams,intoomnibuses.AswelurchdownRegentStreet,andIamflunguponthiswoman,uponthisman,Iamnotinjured,Iamnotoutragedbythecollision.Asquarestandsuponanoblong.Herearemeanstreetswherechafferinggoesoninstreetmarkets,andeverysortofironrod,boltandscrewislaidout,andpeopleswarmoffthepavement,pinchingrawmeatwiththickfingers.Thestructureisvisible.Wehavemadeadwelling-place.

           ’These,then,aretheflowersthatgrowamongtheroughgrassesofthefieldwhichthecowstrample,wind-bitten,almostdeformed,withoutfruitorblossom.ThesearewhatIbring,tornupbytherootsfromthepavementofOxfordStreet,mypennybunch,mypennybunchofviolets.NowfromthewindowofthetramIseemastsamongchimneys;thereistheriver;thereareshipsthatsailtoIndia.Iwillwalkbytheriver.Iwillpacethisembankment,whereanoldmanreadsanewspaperinaglassshelter.