Page 276 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

The chalice flowing to the brim.
Tell no more of enchanted days.
He spoke the verses aloud from the first lines till the
music and rhythm suffused his mind, turning it to quiet in-
dulgence; then copied them painfully to feel them the better
by seeing them; then lay back on his bolster.
The full morning light had come. No sound was to be
heard; but he knew that all around him life was about to
awaken in common noises, hoarse voices, sleepy prayers.
Shrinking from that life he turned towards the wall, mak-
ing a cowl of the blanket and staring at the great overblown
scarlet flowers of the tattered wallpaper. He tried to warm
his perishing joy in their scarlet glow, imagining a roseway
from where he lay upwards to heaven all strewn with scarlet
flowers. Weary! Weary! He too was weary of ardent ways.
A gradual warmth, a languorous weariness passed over
him descending along his spine from his closely cowled
head. He felt it descend and, seeing himself as he lay, smiled.
Soon he would sleep.
He had written verses for her again after ten years. Ten
years before she had worn her shawl cowlwise about her
head, sending sprays of her warm breath into the night air,
tapping her foot upon the glassy road. It was the last tram;
the lank brown horses knew it and shook their bells to the
clear night in admonition. The conductor talked with the
driver, both nodding often in the green light of the lamp.
They stood on the steps of the tram, he on the upper, she on
the lower. She came up to his step many times between their
phrases and went down again and once or twice remained

276 A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man