IX

By John Gould Fletcher

The houses of the city no longer hum and play:

They lie like careless drowsy giants, dumb, estranged.

One presses to his breast his toy, a lighted pane:

One stirs uneasily: one is cold in death.

And the late moon, fearfully peering over an immense shoulder,

Sees, in the shadow below, the unpeopled hush of a street.