A drifting, April, twilight sky,
      A wind which blew the puddles dry,
      And slapped the river into waves
      That ran and hid among the staves
      Of an old wharf.  A watery light
      Touched bleak the granite bridge, and white
      Without the slightest tinge of gold,
      The city shivered in the cold.
      All day my thoughts had lain as dead,
      Unborn and bursting in my head.
      From time to time I wrote a word
      Which lines and circles overscored.
      My table seemed a graveyard, full
      Of coffins waiting burial.
      I seized these vile abortions, tore
      Them into jagged bits, and swore
      To be the dupe of hope no more.
      Into the evening straight I went,
      Starved of a day's accomplishment.
      Unnoticing, I wandered where
      The city gave a space for air,
      And on the bridge's parapet
      I leant, while pallidly there set
      A dim, discouraged, worn-out sun.
      Behind me, where the tramways run,
      Blossomed bright lights, I turned to leave,
      When someone plucked me by the sleeve.
      "Your pardon, Sir, but I should be
      Most grateful could you lend to me
      A carfare, I have lost my purse."
      The voice was clear, concise, and terse.
      I turned and met the quiet gaze
      Of strange eyes flashing through the haze.

      The man was old and slightly bent,
      Under his cloak some instrument
      Disarranged its stately line,
      He rested on his cane a fine
      And nervous hand, an almandine
      Smouldered with dull-red flames, sanguine
      It burned in twisted gold, upon
      His finger.  Like some Spanish don,
      Conferring favours even when
      Asking an alms, he bowed again
      And waited.  But my pockets proved
      Empty, in vain I poked and shoved,
      No hidden penny lurking there
      Greeted my search.  "Sir, I declare
      I have no money, pray forgive,
      But let me take you where you live."
      And so we plodded through the mire
      Where street lamps cast a wavering fire.
      I took no note of where we went,
      His talk became the element
      Wherein my being swam, content.
      It flashed like rapiers in the night
      Lit by uncertain candle-light,
      When on some moon-forsaken sward
      A quarrel dies upon a sword.
      It hacked and carved like a cutlass blade,
      And the noise in the air the broad words made
      Was the cry of the wind at a window-pane
      On an Autumn night of sobbing rain.
      Then it would run like a steady stream
      Under pinnacled bridges where minarets gleam,
      Or lap the air like the lapping tide
      Where a marble staircase lifts its wide
      Green-spotted steps to a garden gate,
      And a waning moon is sinking straight
      Down to a black and ominous sea,
      While a nightingale sings in a lemon tree.

      I walked as though some opiate
      Had stung and dulled my brain, a state
      Acute and slumbrous.  It grew late.
      We stopped, a house stood silent, dark.
      The old man scratched a match, the spark
      Lit up the keyhole of a door,
      We entered straight upon a floor
      White with finest powdered sand
      Carefully sifted, one might stand
      Muddy and dripping, and yet no trace
      Would stain the boards of this kitchen-place.
      From the chimney, red eyes sparked the gloom,
      And a cricket's chirp filled all the room.
      My host threw pine-cones on the fire
      And crimson and scarlet glowed the pyre
      Wrapped in the golden flame's desire.
      The chamber opened like an eye,
      As a half-melted cloud in a Summer sky
      The soul of the house stood guessed, and shy
      It peered at the stranger warily.
      A little shop with its various ware
      Spread on shelves with nicest care.
      Pitchers, and jars, and jugs, and pots,
      Pipkins, and mugs, and many lots
      Of lacquered canisters, black and gold,
      Like those in which Chinese tea is sold.
      Chests, and puncheons, kegs, and flasks,
      Goblets, chalices, firkins, and casks.
      In a corner three ancient amphorae leaned
      Against the wall, like ships careened.
      There was dusky blue of Wedgewood ware,
      The carved, white figures fluttering