Wind of the dead men’s feet,

Wind

W

 Blow down the empty street

 Of this old city by the sea

 With news for me!

 Blow me beyond the grime

 And pestilence of time!

 I am too sick at heart to war

 With failure any more.

 Thy chill is in my bones;

 The moonlight on the stones

33

 Is pale, and palpable, and cold;

 I am as one grown old.

 I call from room to room

 Through the deserted gloom;

 The echoes are all words I know,

 Lost in some long ago.

 I prowl from door to door,

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