AdamSmith Posted June 29, 2013 Posted June 29, 2013 ...I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights Her stove, and lays out food in tins. Out of the window perilously spread Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays, On the divan are piled (at night her bed) Stockings, slippers, camisoles and stays. I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest-- Quote
