To the lurching and crippled march that an idiot voice proclaims!
To Man’s face suddenly made from a million poor men’s faces!
And each walker arrayed with suns that are burning celestial flames!
Ask not watchword nor sign—there is neither tocsin nor clarion;
Only the strength of the flood, the might of the falling snow,
The cry of the bitter clay to the God who devised it carrion,
The purblind silence of sleep, as night to the night we flow.
8:30 A. M. ON 32ND STREET
The wind sniffed like a happy cat
At scuttling beetle-people,