I.
Here amid the night-lights
Of the great city,
With the laughing crowd around me
I sit alone
In one of those strange hours
Walled in with solitude
That are my lot forever amid these lights.
Fronting the empty table before me
And its cortege of seven waiters—
Fronting the restless sea of unknown faces—
I mourn for you, boundlessly curious lady,
For you and for your esteemed consort—
But for you chiefly.
Presently persons will come out
And shake legs.
I do not want legs shaken.
I want immortal souls shaken unreasonably.
I want to see dawn spilled across the blackness
Like a scrambled egg on the skillet;
I want miracles, wonders,
Tidings out of deeps I do not know ...
But I have a horrible suspicion
That neither you
Nor your esteemed consort
Nor I myself
Can ever provide these simple things
For which I am so patiently waiting.