And little houses smothered soft in green,
And the fishers talking, biding for the tides,
And mackerel boats all beached upon their sides.
And it was pleasure edged with lightning pain
To draw these things again in colored chalk,
And I would sometimes think they lived again,
And I would think “O God, if I could walk,
It’s little while I’d linger in this street
Giving my heart to bitterly wounding feet....”
And shame would gnaw me that I had to do it.