From under a wide black hat curving just to hide her ears peers the little face of Juliet of all child lovers who loved in impossible gardens among roses huge as moons and twinkling constellations of jessamine, Juliet, Isabel, Cressida, and that unknown one who went forth at night wandering the snarling streets of Jerusalem. She presses her handkerchief to her mouth to smother her profane giggling. Her skin is browner than the tone of cellos, flushes like with pomegranate juice. ... The moist laden air of a garden in Granada, spice of leaves bruised by the sun; she sits in a dress of crimson brocade dark as blood under the white moon and watches the ripples spread in the gurgling fountain; her lashes curve to her cheeks as she stares wide-eyed lips drawn against the teeth and trembling; gravel crunches down the path; brown in a crimson swirl she stands with full lips head tilted back ... O her small breasts against my panting breast. Clapping. Genteel noise of Paris hats and beards that tilt this way and that. Her face lost in infinities of glittering chandeliers. _Ritz_ XIII There's a sound of drums and trumpets above the rumble of the street. (Run run run to see the soldiers.) All alike all abreast keeping time to the regimented swirl of the glittering brass band. The café waiters are craning at the door the girl in the gloveshop is nose against the glass. O the glitter of the brass and the flutter of the plumes and the tramp of the uniform feet! Run run run to see the soldiers. The boy with a tray of pastries on his head is walking fast, keeping time; his white and yellow cakes are trembling in the sun his cheeks are redder and his bluestriped tunic streams as he marches to the rum tum of the drums. Run run run to see the soldiers. The milkman with his pony slung with silvery metal jars schoolboys with their packs of books clerks in stiff white collars old men in cloaks try to regiment their feet to the glittering brass beat. Run run run to see the soldiers. _Puerta del Sol_ XIV Night of clouds terror of their flight across the moon. Over the long still plains blows a wind out of the north; a laden wind out of the north rattles the leaves of the liveoaks menacingly and loud. * * * * * Black as old blood on the cold plain close throngs spread to beyond lead horizons swaying shrouded crowds and their rustle in the knife-keen wind is like the dry death-rattle of the winter grass. (Like mouldered shrouds the clouds fall from the crumbling skull of the dead moon.)