THE NOON OF NIGHT

The fictive tear he holds in reverence,

And studies heady griefs that wash the cheek;

It is a dim dominion he must seek,

To gain some raiment for his impotence.

Sorrows are numbered, the sighs have their strings,

And barren smiles are trained for tragedy;

He ties up parcels of mock gaiety,

And labels them with many worshippings.

Grapes in the grass, and every day a waste

At scattered sources of lost loveliness,

With drunkenness to drain the ruined seats.

He knows his gems are turned to glassy paste —

But he thanks God aloof from all distress,

For he knows sewers run beneath the city streets.