Like the sharp scrape of tin-tacks desperate,
Persistent in the hollowed crystal air,
Till sounds dissolve to liquid quietude.
The hot dust smeared along the roadway chokes
The sneezing passers-by and slowly mounts
Into their nostril-caves distressingly
Like microscopic gnats, but now there come
Refreshing rumblings from the water-cart,
Which spits small Beardsley-drops about the street
And trickles down into the gutters fast,