In the street an old man is passing wrapped in a dun brown mantle blowing with bearded lips on a shining panpipe while he trundles before him a grindstone. The scissors grinder. _Calle Espoz y Mina_ V Rain slants on an empty square. Across the expanse of cobbles rides an old shawl-muffled woman black on a donkey with pert ears that places carefully his tiny sharp hoofs as if the cobbles were eggs. The paniers are full of bright green lettuces and purple cabbages, and shining red bellshaped peppers, dripping, shining, a band in marchtime, in the grey rain, in the grey city. _Plaza Santa Ana_ VI BEGGARS The fountain some dead king put up, conceived in pompous imageries, piled with mossgreened pans and centaurs topped by a prudish tight-waisted Cybele (Cybele the many-breasted mother of the grain) spurts with a solemn gurgle of waters. Where the sun is warmest their backs against the greystone basin sit, hoarding every moment of the palefaced sun, (thy children Cybele) Pan a bearded beggar with blear eyes; his legs were withered by a papal bull, those shaggy legs so nimble to pursue through groves of Arcadian myrtle the nymphs of the fountains and valleys; a young Faunus with soft brown face and dirty breast bared to the sun; the black hair crisps about his ears with some grace yet; a little barefoot Eros crouching to scratch his skinny thighs who stares with wide gold eyes aghast at the yellow shiny trams that clatter past. All day long they doze in the scant sun and watch the wan leaves rustle to the ground from the yellowed limetrees of the avenue. They are still thine Cybele nursed at thy breast; (like a woman's last foster-children that still would suck grey withered dugs). They have not scorned thy dubious bounty for stridence of grinding iron and pale caged lives made blind by the dust of toil to coin the very sun to gold. _Plaza de Cibeles_ VII Footsteps and the leisurely patter of rain. Beside the lamppost in the alley stands a girl in a long sleek shawl that moulds vaguely to the curves of breast and arms. Her eyes are in shadow. A smell of frying fish; footsteps of people going to dinner clatter eagerly through the lane. A boy with a trough of meat on his shoulder turns by the lamppost, his steps drag. The green light slants in the black of his eyes. Her eyes are in shadow.