Poems

The hard rain-drops beat like wet pellets On my nose and right cheek As we jerk and slither through the traffic. There is a great beating of wheels And a rumble of ugly machines. The west-bound buses are full of men In grey clothes and hard hats, Holding up umbrellas Over their sallow faces As they return to the suburban rabbit-holes. The women-clerks Try to be brightly dressed; Now the wind makes their five-shilling-hats jump And the hat-pins pull their hair. When one is quite free, and curious, They are fascinating to look at— Poor devils of a sober hell. The shop-lamps and the street-lamps Send steady rayed floods of yellow and red light So that Oxford street is paved with copper and chalcedony.

The cripples are going to church. Their crutches beat upon the stones, And they have clumsy iron boots. Their clothes are black, their faces peaked and mean; Their legs are withered Like dried bean-pods. Their eyes are as stupid as frogs’. And the god, September, Has paused for a moment here Garlanded with crimson leaves. He held a branch of fruited oak. He smiled like Hermes the beautiful Cut in marble.