White bodies naked on the low damp ground
                     And bones cast in a little low dry garret,

 

 

                     At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
                     Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,

 

 

                     Then spoke the thunder

 

 

                     I sat upon the shore
                     Fishing, with the arid plain behind me
                     Shall I at least set my lands in order?

 

                     Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina

 

                     Quando fiam uti chelidon—O swallow swallow

                     Le Prince d’Aquitaine ? la tour abolie

 

                     These fragments I have shored against my ruins
                     Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad again.
                     Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
                            Shantih   shantih   shantih