at Hodges Figgis' window on Monday looking in for one of the alphabet
books you were going to write. Keen glance you gave her. Wrist through
the braided jesse of her sunshade. She lives in Leeson park with
a grief and kickshaws, a lady of letters. Talk that to someone else,
Stevie: a pickmeup. Bet she wears those curse of God stays suspenders
and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool. Talk about apple dumplings,
PIUTTOSTO. Where are your wits?

Touch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here. O, touch
me soon, now. What is that word known to all men? I am quiet here alone.
Sad too. Touch, touch me.

He lay back at full stretch over the sharp rocks, cramming the
scribbled note and pencil into a pock his hat. His hat down on his eyes.
That is Kevin Egan's movement I made, nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep.
ET VIDIT DEUS. ET ERANT VALDE BONA. Alo! BONJOUR. Welcome as the flowers
in May. Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the
southing sun. I am caught in this burning scene. Pan's hour, the faunal
noon. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where on the
tawny waters leaves lie wide. Pain is far.

AND NO MORE TURN ASIDE AND BROOD.

His gaze brooded on his broadtoed boots, a buck's castoffs,
NEBENEINANDER. He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's
foot had nested warm. The foot that beat the ground in tripudium, foot I
dislove. But you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on you:
girl I knew in Paris. TIENS, QUEL PETIT PIED! Staunch friend, a brother
soul: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. His arm: Cranly's arm. He
now will leave me. And the blame? As I am. As I am. All or not at all.