And the trees about me,
　　Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks
　　Groan with continual surges; and behind me
　　Make all a desolation. Look, look, wenches!
　　
　　
　　Paint me a cavernous waste shore
　　Cast in the unstilted Cyclades,
　　Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks
　　Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.
　　
　　Display me Aeolus above
　　Reviewing the insurgent gales
　　Which tangle Ariadne's hair
　　And swell with haste the perjured sails.
　　
　　Morning stirs the feet and hands
　　(Nausicaa and Polypheme),
　　Gesture of orang-outang
　　Rises from the sheets in steam.
　　
　　This withered root of knots of hair
　　Slitted below and gashed with eyes,
　　This oval O cropped out with teeth:
　　The sickle motion from the thighs
　　
　　Jackknifes upward at the knees
　　Then straightens out from heel to hip
　　Pushing the framework of the bed
　　And clawing at the pillow slip.
　　
　　Sweeney addressed full length to shave
　　Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base,
　　Knows the female temperament
　　And wipes the suds around his face.
　　
　　(The lengthened shadow of a man
　　Is history, said Emerson
　　Who had not seen the silhouette
　　Of Sweeney straddled in the sun).
　　
　　Tests the razor on his leg
　　Waiting until the shriek subsides.
　　The epileptic on the bed
　　Curves backward, clutching at her sides.
　　
　　The ladies of the corridor
　　Find themselves involved, disgraced,
　　Call witness to their principles
　　And deprecate the lack of taste
　　
　　Observing that hysteria
　　Might easily be misunderstood;
　　Mrs. Turner intimates
　　It does the house no sort of good.
　　
　　But Doris, towelled from the bath,
　　Enters padding on broad feet,
　　Bringing sal volatile
　　And a glass of brandy neat.