"How small the world is, after all," she said.

I heard the Arctic wind in the howling cold.

I saw the Flying Dutchman, not yet dead,

Wander the seven seas. I saw the gold

Of dawn on lamas in Tibet, who pray

That prayer-wheels whirling drive the devils away.

"Life is so complicated, isn't it?"

She said. I had a lighthouse-keeper's thought,

Waiting until the beacons could be lit.

I was a convict lying on my cot.

Within a high garden walls I saw a nun.

I saw old men in parks, done in, and done.

"I wish you'd tell me what you really think,

She said. I thought of an amoeba's meal.

One closes bodily round one's food and drink.

Vaguely one floats on microcosmic keel,

Nothing to think, or care, or carry through.

If one is bored, one simply splits in two.