You must soon come again. Good-bye, good-bye. . . .”
He tottered forth, full of the melancholy
That comes of surfeit, and began to walk
Slowly towards Oxford Street. The brazen sky
Burned overhead. Beneath his feet the stones
Were a grey incandescence, and his bones
Melted within him, and his bowels yearned.
VI
THE crowd, the crowd—oh, he could almost cry