And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?


I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? ... There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet.


Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. And should I then presume? And how should I begin? — T.S. Eliot.