Slowly the pale feet of morning
Tread out the ashes of midnight still burning with feverous lamplight,
Colourless, cold, as the rainclad
Sleep-druggèd river that carries the wreckage of cities out sea-ward.
Slowly the fingers of dawn-light
Snuff out the candles that yearned to those Gods of delirium,
Sleep-huge as shadows grimacing
From niches made black with the smoke of a fire-spangled passion.
Smoothly the wild hair of darkness
Is plaited for rest, and the faces of visions are covered with sleep veils.