you are our Sargasso Sea, London has swept about you this score years And bright ships left you this or that in fee: Ideas, old gossip, oddments of all things, Strange spars of knowledge and dimmed wares of price. Great minds have sought you—lacking someone else. You have been second always. Tragical? No. You preferred it to the usual thing: One dull man, dulling and uxorious, One average mind—with one thought less, each year. Oh, you are patient, I have seen you sit Hours, where something might have floated up. And now you pay one. Yes, you richly pay. You are a person of some interest, one comes to you And takes strange gain away: Trophies fished up; some curious suggestion; Fact that leads nowhere; and a tale for two, Pregnant with mandrakes, or with something else That might prove useful and yet never proves, That never fits a corner or shows use, Or finds its hour upon the loom of days: The tarnished, gaudy, wonderful old work; Idols and ambergris and rare inlays, These are your riches, your great store; and yet For all this sea-hoard of deciduous things, Strange woods half sodden, and new brighter stuff: In the slow float of differing light and deep, No! there is nothing! In the whole and all, Nothing that's quite your own. Yet this is you. N.Y. My City, my beloved, my white! Ah, slender, Listen! Listen to me, and I will breathe into thee a soul. Delicately upon the reed, attend me! Now do I know that I am mad, For here are a million people surly with traffic; This is no maid. Neither could I play upon any reed if I had one. My City, my beloved, Thou art a maid with no breasts, Thou art slender as a silver reed. Listen to me, attend me! And I will breathe into thee a soul, And thou shalt live for ever. A GIRL The tree has entered my hands, The sap has ascended my arms, The tree has grown in my breast— Downward, The branches grow out of me, like arms. Tree you are, Moss you are, You are violets with wind above them. A child—so high—you are, And all this is folly to the world.    "PHASELLUS ILLE"   This papier-mâché, which you see, my friends, Saith 'twas the worthiest of editors. Its mind was made up in "the seventies," Nor hath it ever since changed that concoction. It works to represent that school of thought Which brought the hair-cloth chair to such perfection, Nor will the horrid threats of Bernard Shaw Shake up the stagnant pool of its convictions; Nay, should the deathless voice of all the world Speak once again for its sole stimulation, 'Twould not move it one jot from left to right. Come Beauty barefoot from the Cyclades, She'd find a model for St Anthony In this thing's sure decorum and behaviour. AN OBJECT This thing, that hath a code and not a core, Hath set acquaintance where might be affections, And nothing now 

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