I am neither infant nor happy grandfather
Nor parent, nor lover
Of anyone, of anyone.
I am, as every man is, Majesty,
Autumn sliped into Paris yesterday,
came silently down Boulevard St Michel,
In sultry heat, past boughs sullen and still,
Útra kelünk. Megyünk az Ôszbe,
Vijjogva, sírva, kergetôzve,
Két lankadt szárnyú héja-madár.
With my old man's wrinkled hand,
with my old man's squinting eyes,
let me hold your lovely hand,
let me guard your lovely eyes.
Holy ecstasy-swans on great glad Waters
Seize me, but in vain.
I hear the gaggling of sensible ganders,
Nothing can remain,
Your eyes are mirrors
of blessed marvels,
for they have seen me;
you are the mistress,
I am the Son of King Gog of Magog(1)
I'm banging doors and walls to no avail -
yet I must ask this question as prologue:
Behold my treasures, darling,
they are less than a Biblical farthing,
behold the fate of a true and faithful life,
Neither the issue nor the sire,
neither fulfilment nor desire
am I for anyone,
am I for anyone.