  THE sentries in their boxes, Like rigid dolls of wood, In saffron-yellow tunics Lethargically stood. The shower had not finished And still her threaded tears Fell down like little seconds Across the flight of years. The pavement was a mirror Which caught the jets of light, The twinkling strings of jewels That pour from lamps at night. Suffused among the turrets A solitary bird Imprisoned in its feathers A music faint and blurred.... In bed, I heard the creeping, The rippling drum of rain And watched the twilight falling Upon the window pane. |
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