'They cover a body with roses . . . I shall not see it . . . Must one return to the lifeless walls of a city Whose soul is charred by fire? . . . ' His eyes are closed, his lips press tightly together. Wheels hiss beneath us. He yields us our desire. 'No, do not stare so--he is weak with grief, He cannot face you, he turns his eyes aside; He is confused with pain. I suffered this. I know. It was long ago . . . He closes his eyes and drowns in death again.' The wind hurls blows at the rain-starred glistening windows, The wind shrills down from the half-seen walls. We flow on the mournful wind in a dream of dying; And at last a silence falls. VII. Midnight; bells toll, and along the cloud-high towers The golden lights go out . . . The yellow windows darken, the shades are drawn, In thousands of rooms we sleep, we await the dawn, We lie face down, we dream, We cry aloud with terror, half rise, or seem To stare at the ceiling or walls . . . Midnight . . . the last of shattering bell-notes falls. A rush of silence whirls over the cloud-high towers, A vortex of soundless hours. 'The bells have just struck twelve: I should be sleeping. But I cannot delay any longer to write and tell you. The woman is dead. She died--you know the way. Just as we planned. Smiling, with open sunlit eyes. Smiling upon the outstretched fatal hand . . .' He folds his letter, steps softly down the stairs. The doors are closed and silent. A gas-jet flares. His shadow disturbs a shadow of balustrades. The door swings shut behind. Night roars above him. Into the night he fades. Wind; wind; wind; carving the walls; Blowing the water that gleams in the street; Blowing the rain, the sleet. In the dark alley, an old tree cracks and falls, Oak-boughs moan in the haunted air; Lamps blow down with a crash and tinkle of glass . . . Darkness whistles . . . Wild hours pass . . .