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Morning
THE JEWEL-BLUE electric flowers | |
| Are cold upon their iron trees. | |
| Upraised, the deadly harp of rails | |
| Whines for its interval of ease. | |
| The stones keep all their daily speech | 5 |
| Buried, but can no more forget | |
| Than would a water-vacant beach | |
| The hour when it was wet. | |
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| A whitened few wane out like moons, | |
| Ghastly, from some torn edge of shade; | 10 |
| A drowning one, a reeling one, | |
| And one still loitering after trade. | |
| On high the candour of the clock | |
| Portions the dark with solemn sound. | |
| The burden of the bitten rock | 15 |
| Moans up from underground. | |
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| Far down the streets a shutting door | |
| Echoes the yesterday that fled | |
| Among the days that should have been, | |
| Which people cities of the dead. | 20 |
| The banners of the steam unfold | |
| Upon the towers to meet the day; | |
| The lights go out in red and gold, | |
| But Time goes out in grey. | |
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