I cannot restrain myself. As I was mowing this evening I was again haunted by "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."
Shall I say, "I have walked at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirtsleeves, leaning out of windows?"
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
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?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald)
Brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet, and here's no great matter:
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.