You see me moving, then, as one who moves Forever at the centre of his circle: A circle filled with light. And into it Come bulging shapes from darkness, loom gigantic, Or huddle in dark again. . . . A clock ticks clearly, A gas-jet steadily whirs, light streams across me; Two church bells, with alternate beat, strike nine; And through these things my pencil pushes softly To weave grey webs of lines on this clear page. Snow falls and melts; the eaves make liquid music; Black wheel-tracks line the snow-touched street; I turn And look one instant at the half-dark gardens, Where skeleton elm-trees reach with frozen gesture Above unsteady lamps,--with black boughs flung Against a luminous snow-filled grey-gold sky. 'Beauty!' I cry. . . . My feet move on, and take me Between dark walls, with orange squares for windows. Beauty; beheld like someone half-forgotten, Remembered, with slow pang, as one neglected . . . Well, I am frustrate; life has beaten me, The thing I strongly seized has turned to darkness, And darkness rides my heart. . . . These skeleton elm-trees-- Leaning against that grey-gold snow filled sky-- Beauty! they say, and at the edge of darkness Extend vain arms in a frozen gesture of protest . . . A clock ticks softly; a gas-jet steadily whirs: The pencil meets its shadow upon clear paper, Voices are raised, a door is slammed. The lovers, Murmuring in an adjacent room, grow silent, The eaves make liquid music. . . . Hours have passed, And nothing changes, and everything is changed. Exultation is dead, Beauty is harlot,-- And walks the streets. The thing I strongly seized Has turned to darkness, and darkness rides my heart.