The winter evening settles down With smell of steaks in passageways. Six o’clock. The burnt-out ends of smoky days. And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps Of withered leaves about your feet And newspapers from vacant lots; The showers beat On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps. II
The morning comes to consciousness Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street With all its muddy feet that press To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands That are raising dingy shades In a thousand furnished rooms.
III
You tossed a blanket from the bed, You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing The thousand sordid images Of which your soul was constituted; And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters And you heard the sparrows in the gutters, You had such a vision of the street As the street hardly understands; Sitting along the bed’s edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair, Or clasped the yellow soles of feet In the palms of both soiled hands.