From a high window, and his maddened eyes,
Before the bending street hid him again.
“There is a doom on poets; their fond thought
Builds an ambitious phantasy, and calls
The frail thing Life; this gossamer of dreams
Each strong wind shatters. Priest, perchance it was
My beauty, like a wind, had wrecked his web,
So that his life became quite purposeless,
The whole world being alien to him,
And only I seemed to him like a star,