VI THE crowd, the crowd—oh, he could almost cry To see those myriad faces hurrying by, And each a strong tower rooted in the past On dark unknown foundations, each made fast With locks nobody knew the secret of, No key could open: save that perhaps love Might push the bars half back and just peep in— And see strange sights, it may be. But for him They were locked donjons, every window bright With beckoning mystery; and then, Good Night! The lamp was out, they were passed, they were gone For ever . . . ever. And one might have been The hero or the friend long sought, and one Was the loveliest face his eyes had ever seen, (Vanished as soon) and he went lonely on. Then in a sudden fearful vision he saw The whole world spread before him—a vast sphere Of seething atoms moving to one law: “Be individual. Approach, draw near, Yes, even touch: but never join, never be Other than your own selves eternally.” And there are tangents, tangents of thought that aim Out through the gaps between the patterned stars At some fantastic dream without a name That like the moon shining through prison bars, Visits the mind with madness. So they fly, Those soaring tangents, till the first jet tires, Failing, faltering half-way up the sky, And breaks—poor slender fountain that aspires Against the whole strength of the heavy earth Within whose womb, darkly, it took birth. Oh, how remote he walked along the street, Jostling with other lumps of human meat! He was so tired. The café doors invite. Caverned within them, still lingers the night In shadowy coolness, soothing the seared sight. He sat there smoking, soulless and wholly crass, Sunk to the eyes in the warm sodden morass Of his own guts, wearily, wearily Ruminating visions of mortality— Memento Moris from the pink alcove, Nightmare oppressiveness of profane love. Cesspool within, and without him he could see Nothing but mounds of flesh and harlotry. Like a half-pricked bubble pendulous in space, The buttered leatheriness of a Jew’s face Looms through cigar-smoke; red and ghastly white, Death’s-head women fascinate the sight. It was the nightmare of a corpse. Dead, dead . . . Oh, to wake up, to live again! he fled From that foul place and from himself. VII TWIN domes of the Alhambra, Veiled tenderness of the sky above the Square: He sat him down in the gardens, under the trees, And in the dust, with the point of his umbrella, Drew pictures of the crosses we have to bear. The poor may starve, the sick have horrible pains— But there are pale eyes even in the London planes. Men may make war and money, mischief and love— But about us are colours and the sky above.