Street-Walkers.
WHEN into the night the yellow light
is roused like
dust above the towns,
Or like a mist the moon has
kissed from off a pool in
the midst of the
downs,
Our faces flower for a little hour
pale and uncertain
along the street,
Daisies that waken all mistaken white-spread in
ex —
pectancy to meet
The luminous mist which the poor
things wist was
dawn arriving across the sky,
When dawn is far behind the
star the dust-lit town
has driven so
high.
All the birds are folded in a silent
ball of sleep,
All the flowers are faded from the asphalt isle
in
the sea,
Only we hard-faced creatures go
round and round,
and keep
The shores of
this innermost ocean alive and
illusory.
Wanton sparrows that twittered when
morning
looked in at their
eyes
And the Cyprian’s pavement-roses are gone,
and
now it is we
Flowers of illusion who shine
in our gauds, make a
Paradise
On the shores
of this ceaseless ocean, gay birds of
the
town-dark sea.