| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | Tea at the Palaz of Hoon | | By Wallace Stevens |
| | From “Sur Ma Guzzla Gracile”
NOT less because in purple I descended | |
| The western day through what you called | |
| The loneliest air, not less was I myself. | |
| |
| What was the ointment sprinkled on my beard? | |
| What were the hymns that buzzed beside my ears? | 5 |
| What was the sea whose tide swept through me there? | |
| |
| Out of my mind the golden ointment rained, | |
| And my ears made the blowing hymns they heard. | |
| I was myself the compass of that sea: | |
| |
| I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw | 10 |
| Or heard or felt came not but from myself; | |
| And there I found myself more truly and more strange. | | | | |
|
|
