The butcher stood by his window tying his apron;
The same men walked beside him, smoking pipes,
Reading the morning paper....
He would not yield, he thought, and walk more slowly,
As if he knew for certain he walked to death:
But with his usual pace,—deliberate, firm,
Looking about him calmly, watching the world,
Taking his ease.... Yet, when he thought again
Of the same dream, now dreamed three separate times,
Always the same, and heard that whistling wind,