Tea at the Palace of Hoon
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 in 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 the sea:
I was in the world in which I walked, and what I saw
Or head or felt came not by from myself;
And there I found myself more truly and more strange.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), USA