’Neath the curse of a laundried shirt!
I tire to death of the town’s close breath—
Of the pave, and the lighted street:
Its silken tiles, and its threadbare smiles—
Of the patter of kid-shod feet;
And thoughts tramp back where I lost the track
Of a “leader” of five-ounce dirt,
Before I knelt with a “Scheme”-cleansed pelt
At the shrine of a laundried shirt!
[82]
]I came down here for a spell, last year,