ALLthe words(even the title) of this poem come from Chapter three of The Great Gatsy by Fitzgerald. I just rearranged them.
The Echolaliaof the Garden
Through the summer nights, in his blue gardens
Men and girls came and went.
I was sure that they were selling something.
The premature moon: gas blue—
Two hundred and sixty-five dollars
But a peculiar combination of circumstances had prevented it.
The air is alive with chatter and laughter
And casual innuendo.
The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches
Away from the sun
And dissolve and form in the same breath.
It was necessary to whisper about in this world,
Carefully on guard against its spectroscopic gayety
In a cynical, melancholy way—
Old men pushing young girls backward
In eternal graceless circles with triumphant glide
On through the sea-change of faces and voices
And color under the constantly changing light.
Two finger bowls of champagne and the scene had changed
Into something significant, elemental, and profound.
It fooled me. Some sensation! What realism!
A thrill passed over all of us
For a sharp joyous moment
And stood at the head of the marble steps
Leaning a little backward and looking
With contemptuous interest down into the garden
Among the whisperings and the champagne
And the stars.
It was testimony to the romantic speculation
But I wasn't even trying.
I wasn't trying.
A wafer of a moon was shining,
Trembling a little.
A momentary hush
Seemed unnaturally loud
And surviving the laughter and the sound
Of his still glowing garden
Whispers
Let's get out.