For the moon to shine on gardened roofs like a white nut peeled of its husk,
The march of the ant-hill crowds below is like sand falling from a height,
And the lost horns of the taxis cry hooting through the dusk.
Gray as rain in an autumn wood when the skies are pale with cloud
Are the light and the street and the faces where the elephant busses roll,
Dark motors shine like a seal’s wet skin, and they and their rich are proud,
But the walkers are dim and aimless on a dolorous way of the soul.
I watch, and my soft, pleased body cries for the rooms with lights like flowers,
For the delicate talk of women, and music’s deep-perfumed smart,
And I sweat at the walkers crushed by machining, implacable hours,