THE sun is bleeding its fires upon
the mist
That
huddles in grey heaps coiling and holding
back.
Like cliffs abutting in shadow
a drear grey sea
Some street-ends thrust forward their
stack.
On the misty waste-lands, away from
the flushing grey
Of
the morning the elms are loftily dimmed, and tall
As if moving in air towards us,
tall angels
Of
darkness advancing steadily over us all.