A Sultrier Dawn

All morning high up on the eaves

Above your window

A dove kept cooing.

Like shirtsleeves The boughs seemed frayed.

It drizzled. Clouds came low to raid

The dusty marketplace.

My anguish on a peddlar's tray

They rocked;

I was afraid.

I begged the clouds that they should stop.

It seemed that they could hear me.

Dawn was as grey as in the shrub

Grey prisoners' angry murmur.

I pleaded with them to bring near

The hour when I would hear

Tidbits of shattered songs

And your wash-basin's roar and splash

Like mountain torrents' headlong rush,

The heat of cheek and brow

On glass as hot as ice and on

The pier-glass table flow.

My plea could not be heard on high

Because the clouds

Talked much too loud

Behind their flag in powdered quiet

Wet like a heavy army coat,

Like threshed sheaves' dusty rub-a-dub

Or like a quarrel in the shrub.

I pleaded with them-

Don't torment me!

I can't sleep.

But-it was drizzling; dragging feet,

The clouds marched down the dusty street

Like recruits from the village in the morning.

They dragged themselves along

An hour or an age,

Like prisoners of war,

Or like the dying wheeze:

"Nurse please,

Some water."