Whilst I am left to numbly contemplate
The thin, white apron strings of cloud above,
Until the raucous luncheon-bell once more
Calls upon men to glut themselves with food.
Then hour on hour of thudded octaves; hour
On hour of doddering on yellow keys—
Long, shapeless valses, British Grenadiers,
Whilst water in the closet down below
Persists in gurgling semitone applause.
The clouds grow sullen and the clerks return