There Is, It Seems To Us, At

I Am Aware Of The Damp Souls Of Housemaids Sprouting Despondently At Area Gates.

Should I, After Tea And Cakes And Ices, Have The Strength To Force The Moment To Its Crisis? But Though I Have Wept And Fasted, Wept And Prayed, Though I Have Seen My Head (grown Slightly Bald) Brought In Upon A Platter, I Am No Prophet--and Here's No Great Matter; I Have Seen The Moment Of My Greatness Flicker, I Have Seen The Eternal Footman Hold My Coat, And Snicker, And In Short, I Was Afraid.

Sand. Everywhere. In The Bed, In The Shower, All Over The Floor. Grrrrr.

I Said To My Soul, Be Still, And Wait Without Hope, For Hope Would Be Hope For The Wrong Thing.

Should I, After Tea And Cakes And Ices, Have The Strength To Force The Moment To Its Crisis?