Found.

TEA in the PALAZ 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 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.

Wallace Stevens

Harold Bloom on poetry as the elixir for longevity ...

Michael Skafides: You've said that, "At 84, I lie awake at night, after a first sleep, and murmur Crane, Whitman and Shakespeare to myself, seeking comfort through continuity, as grand voices somehow hold off the permanent darkness that gathers though it does not fall." Is poetry your elixir for longevity?

Harold Bloom: Absolutely! Poetry is my medicine. At 85, one is a very bad sleeper. Last night in fact, I could not fall asleep again because of my health's failures, and I found myself reciting poetry. Since I was a little one, I have a remarkable memory in terms of recalling poetic texts. So last night, I found myself chanting not Whitman directly, but Wallace Stevens' magnificent complex vision of Whitman. I think I know it by heart so if you don't mind, I'll put it in the picture right now [Bloom recites by heart Stevens' "Tea at the Palace of Hoon," in which the speaker is Walt Whitman himself.] So, poetry is a cure.

Harold Bloom recites this and Stevens' "Like Decorations" ...