O soften West Egg to a hush,
Steal what you will from nineteen-twenty
And that island near the heaped-up ash
Hard by the dark road from the city!
You’ll leave it spare of nervous speech
And money, pure of all save Daisy.
Guilty, she strolls his painful beach,
His shoreline spawn of rotting beauty.
Style, Scott, it’s style you’ve sent to cleanse
Dutch sailors’ eyes, swung back to see
Their vanished trees—that virgin lens
You’ve lent to catch the breath of Gatsby.