Comes as one limping from a sailor’s brawl,
Seeking the comfort of tall roofs and trees,
With tales of dying on disastrous seas—
This city wind that is not wind at all.
Because an area-door is left ajar,
Clapping its fretful word of autumn storm,
I sense these distant tumults, half-asleep,
I know ships founder where black waters are.
What of home-bodies, lying safe and warm,
Drowning in dreams as bitter and as deep?