A wilderness of sad streets,where gaunt walls Hide nothing to desire;sunshine falls Eery,distorted,as it long had shone On white,dead faces tombed in halls of stone.
The whir of motors,stricken through with calls Of playing boys,floats up at intervals;But all these noises blur to one long moan.
What quest is worth pursuing?And how strange That other men still go accustomed ways!
I hate their interest in the things they do.
A spectre-horde repeating without change An old routine.Alone I know the days Are still-born,and the world stopped,lacking you.
Crepuscule du Matin All night I wrestled with a memory Which knocked insurgent at the gates of thought.
The crumbled wreck of years behind has wrought Its disillusion;now I only cry For peace,for power to forget the lie Which hope too long has whispered.So I sought The sleep which would not come,and night was fraught With old emotions weeping silently.
I heard your voice again,and knew the things Which you had promised proved an empty vaunt.
I felt your clinging hands while night's broad wings Cherished our love in darkness.From the lawn A sudden,quivering birdnote,like a taunt.
My arms held nothing but the empty dawn.
Aftermath I learnt to write to you in happier days,And every letter was a piece I chipped From off my heart,a fragment newly clipped From the mosaic of life;its blues and grays,Its throbbing reds,I gave to earn your praise.
To make a pavement for your feet I stripped My soul for you to walk upon,and slipped Beneath your steps to soften all your ways.
But now my letters are like blossoms pale We strew upon a grave with hopeless tears.
I ask no recompense,I shall not fail Although you do not heed;the long,sad years Still pass,and still I scatter flowers frail,And whisper words of love which no one hears.
The End Throughout the echoing chambers of my brain I hear your words in mournful cadence toll Like some slow passing-bell which warns the soul Of sundering darkness.Unrelenting,fain To batter down resistance,fall again Stroke after stroke,insistent diastole,The bitter blows of truth,until the whole Is hammered into fact made strangely plain.