III
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t the first turning of the second stairI turned and saw belowThe same shape twisted on the banisterUnder the vapour in the fetid airStruggling with the devil of the stairs who wearsThe deceitful face of hope and of despair. At the second turning of the second stairI left them twisting, turning below;There were no more faces and the stair was dark,Damp, jaggèd like an old man’s mouth drivelling, beyond repair,Or the toothed gullet of an agèd shark. At the first turning of the third stairWas a slotted window bellied like the fig’s fruitAnd beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture sceneThe broadbacked figure drest in blue and greenEnchanted the maytime with an antique flute.Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,Lilac and brown hair;Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind overthe third stair,Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despairClimbing the third stair. Lord, I am not worthyLord, I am not worthy but speak the word only.
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