endless sheets Rounding out in his flourishing hand Sentence after sentence loud With dead kings' names.

 Looking out at the vast grey violet dusk A pale boy sits in a window, a book Wide open on his knees, and fears With cold choked fear the thronging lives That lurk in the shadows and fill the dusk With menacing steps.

 Far away the gaslamp glows dull gold A vague tulip in the misty night. The clattering drone of a distant tram Grows loud and fades with a hum of wires Leaving the street breathless with silence, chill       And the listening houses.

 Bordeaux

X

 O douce Sainte Geneviève ramène moi a ta ville, Paris.

In the smoke of morning the bridges are dusted with orangy sunshine.

 Bending their black smokestacks far back muddling themselves in their spiralling smoke the tugboats pass under the bridges and behind them stately gliding smooth like clouds the barges come black barges with blunt prows spurning the water gently gently rebuffing the opulent wavelets of opal and topaz and sapphire, barges casually come from far towns towards far towns unhurryingly bound.

 The tugboats shrieks and shrieks again calling beyond the next bend and away. In the smoke of morning the bridges are dusted with orangy sunshine.

O douce Sainte Geneviève ramène moi a ta ville, Paris.

 Big hairy-hoofed horses are drawing carts loaded with flour-sacks, white flour-sacks, bluish in the ruddy flush of the morning streets.

On one cart two boys perch wrestling and their arms and faces glow ruddy against the white flour-sacks as the sun against the flour-white sky.

O douce Sainte Geneviève ramène moi a ta ville, Paris.

Under the arcade loud as castanettes with steps of little 

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