Explore "Tea at the Palaz of Hoon" by Wallace Stevens on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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? / 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 / Or heard or felt came not but from myself; / And there I found myself more truly and more strange.