Thou hast nor youth nor ageBut as it were an after dinner sleepDreaming of both.Here I am, an old man in a dry month, Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.I was neither at the hot gatesNor fought in the warm rainNor knee deep in the salt marsh, heaving a cutlass, Bitten by flies, fought.My house is a decayed house, And the jew squats on the window sill, the owner, Spawned in some estaminet of Antwerp, Blistered in Brussels, patched and peeled in London.The goat coughs at night in the field overhead;Rocks, moss, stonecrop, iron, merds.The woman keeps the kitchen, makes tea, Sneezes at evening, poking the peevish gutter.I an old man, A dull head among windy spaces.Signs are taken for wonders. "We would see a sign" The word within a word, unable to speak a word, Swaddled with darkness. In the juvescence of the yearCame Christ the tigerIn depraved May, dogwood and chestnut, flowering Judas, To be eaten, to be divided, to be drunkAmong whispers; by Mr. SilveroWith caressing hands, at LimogesWho walked all night in the next room;By Hakagawa, bowing among the Titians;By Madame de Tornquist, in the dark roomShifting the candles; Fraulein von KulpWho turned in the hall, one hand on the door. Vacant shuttlesWeave the wind. I have no ghosts, An old man in a draughty house