Home from Guatemala, back at the Waldorf. This arrival in the wild country of the soul, All approaches gone, being completely there, Where the wild poem is a substitute For the woman one loves or ought to love, One wild rhapsody a fake for another. You touch the hotel the way you touch moonlight Or sunlight and you hum and the orchestra Hums and you say 'The world in a verse, A generation sealed, men remoter than mountains, Women invisible in music and motion and color,' After that alien, point-blank, green and actual Guatemala.

A. A violent order is disorder; and B. A great disorder is an order. These Two things are one.

If there must be a god in the house, must be, Saying things in the room and on the stair, Let him move as the sunlight moves on the floor, Or moonlight, silent…

That's what misery is, Nothing to have at heart. It is to have or nothing. It is a thing to have, A lion, an ox in his breast, To feel it breathing there. Cora…

Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar. Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell? Whom do you lead on Rapture's roadway, far, Before you agonise them in …

Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory - Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead…

Yes. I remember Adlestrop - The name, because one afternoon Of heat the express-train drew up there Unwontedly. It was late June.