(...) At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest -
I too awaited the expected guest
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives
A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire
The time is now propitious, as he guesses
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which still are unreproved, if undesired
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;
His vanity requires no response
And makes a welcome of indifference
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows one final patronising kiss
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit
She turns and looks a moment in the glass
Hardly aware of her departed lover;
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
"Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over."
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand
And puts a record on the gramophone. (...)
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest -
I too awaited the expected guest
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives
A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire
The time is now propitious, as he guesses
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which still are unreproved, if undesired
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;
His vanity requires no response
And makes a welcome of indifference
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows one final patronising kiss
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit
She turns and looks a moment in the glass
Hardly aware of her departed lover;
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
"Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over."
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand
And puts a record on the gramophone. (...)
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