Волны

           Onemustslippaper-knives,even,exactlythroughthepagesofnovels,andtieuppacketsoflettersneatlywithgreensilk,andbrushupthecinderswithahearthbroom.Everythingmustbedonetorebukethehorrorofdeformity.LetusreadwritersofRomanseverityandvirtue;letusseekperfectionthroughthesand.Yes,butIlovetoslipthevirtueandseverityofthenobleRomansunderthegreylightofyoureyes,anddancinggrassesandsummerbreezesandthelaughterandshoutsofboysatplay--ofnakedcabin-boyssquirtingeachotherwithhosepipesonthedecksofships.HenceIamnotadisinterestedseeker,likeLouis,afterperfectionthroughthesand.Coloursalwaysstainthepage;cloudspassoverit.Andthepoem,Ithink,isonlyyourvoicespeaking.Alcibiades,Ajax,HectorandPercivalarealsoyou.Theylovedriding,theyriskedtheirliveswantonly,theywerenotgreatreaderseither.ButyouarenotAjaxorPercival.Theydidnotwrinkletheirnosesandscratchtheirforeheadswithyourprecisegesture.Youareyou.Thatiswhatconsolesmeforthelackofmanythings--Iamugly,Iamweak--andthedepravityoftheworld,andtheflightofyouthandPercival’sdeath,andbitternessandrancourandenviesinnumerable.

           ’Butifonedayyoudonotcomeafterbreakfast,ifonedayIseeyouinsomelooking-glassperhapslookingafteranother,ifthetelephonebuzzesandbuzzesinyouremptyroom,Ishallthen,afterunspeakableanguish,Ishallthen--forthereisnoendtothefollyofthehumanheart--seekanother,findanother,you.