(no subject)
". . . I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall weat the bottoms of my trowsers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trowsers, and walk along the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves,
Combing the whilte hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By seaguls wreathed with seaweed red and brown,
Till human voices wake us, and we drown. "
-- TS Eliot