T. S. Eliot

Mr. Apollinax

WHEN Mr. Apollinax visited the United States  
His laughter tinkled among the teacups.  
I thought of Fragilion, that shy figure among the birch—trees,  
And of Priapus in the shrubbery  
Gaping at the lady in the swing.
In the palace of Mrs. Phlaccus, at Professor Channing—Cheetah’s  
He laughed like an irresponsible fœtus.  
His laughter was submarine and profound  
Like the old man of the sea’s  
Hidden under coral islands
Where worried bodies of drowned men drift down in the green silence,  
Dropping from fingers of surf.  
I looked for the head of Mr. Apollinax rolling under a chair  
Or grinning over a screen  
With seaweed in its hair.
I heard the beat of centaur’s hoofs over the hard turf  
As his dry and passionate talk devoured the afternoon.  
“He is a charming man”—“But after all what did he mean?”—  
“His pointed ears … He must be unbalanced,”—  
“There was something he said that I might have challenged.”  
Of dowager Mrs. Phlaccus, and Professor and Mrs. Cheetah  
I remember a slice of lemon, and a bitten macaroon.
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