Though I have heard the cry of fear in crowded loneliness of space,
Dead laughter from the lips of lust,
Anger from fools, falsehood from sycophants,
(My fear, my lips, my anger, my disgrace)
Though I have held a golden cup and tasted rust,
Seen cities rush to be defiled
By the bright-fevered and consuming sin
Of making only coin and lives to count it in,
Yet once I watched with Celia,
Watched on a ferry an Italian child,