VIII.

     The white fog creeps from the cold sea over the city,
     Over the pale grey tumbled towers,—
     And settles among the roofs, the pale grey walls.
     Along damp sinuous streets it crawls,
     Curls like a dream among the motionless trees
     And seems to freeze.

     The fog slips ghostlike into a thousand rooms,
     Whirls over sleeping faces,
     Spins in an atomy dance round misty street lamps;
     And blows in cloudy waves over open spaces . . .

     And one from his high window, looking down,
     Peers at the cloud-white town,
     And thinks its island towers are like a dream . . .
     It seems an enormous sleeper, within whose brain
     Laborious shadows revolve and break and gleam.

     I.

     The round red sun heaves darkly out of the sea.
     The walls and towers are warmed and gleam.
     Sounds go drowsily up from streets and wharves.
     The city stirs like one that is half in dream.

     And the mist flows up by dazzling walls and windows,
     Where one by one we wake and rise.
     We gaze at the pale grey lustrous sea a moment,
     We rub the darkness from our eyes,

     And face our thousand devious secret mornings . . .
     And do not see how the pale mist, slowly ascending,
     Shaped by the sun, shines like a white-robed dreamer
     Compassionate over our towers bending.

     There, like one who gazes into a crystal,
     He broods upon our city with sombre eyes;
     He sees our secret fears vaguely unfolding,
     Sees cloudy symbols shape to rise.

     Each gleaming point of light is like a seed
     Dilating swiftly to coiling fires.
     Each cloud becomes a rapidly dimming face,
     Each hurrying face records its strange desires.

     We descend our separate stairs toward the day,
     Merge in the somnolent mass that fills the street,
     Lift our eyes to the soft blue space of sky,
     And walk by the well-known walls with accustomed feet.

     II. THE FULFILLED DREAM

     More towers must yet be built—more towers destroyed—
     Great rocks hoisted in air;
     And he must seek his bread in high pale sunlight
     With gulls about him, and clouds just over his eyes . . .
     And so he did not mention his dream of falling
     But drank his coffee in silence, and heard in his ears
     That horrible whistle of wind, and felt his breath
     Sucked out of him, and saw the tower flash by
     And the small tree swell beneath him . . .
     He patted his boy on the head, and kissed his wife,
     Looked quickly around the room, to remember it,—
     And so went out . . .  For once, he forgot his pail.

     Something had changed—but it was not the street—
     The street was just the same—it was himself.
     Puddles flashed in the sun.  In the pawn-shop door
     The same old black cat winked green amber eyes;
     The butcher stood by his window tying his apron;
     The same men walked beside him, smoking pipes,
     Reading the morning paper . . .

     He would not yield, he thought, and walk more slowly,
     As if he knew for certain he walked to