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.