  Through the turbulent servility Of a churlish city street He strides opaquely; nothing in his walk Resembles an advancing gleam. His legs are muffled iron Stubbornly following even thoughts, His gaily pugnacious head Seems worried because no dread Remains for it to slay. His eyes hold an austerity That recalls itself while leaping, And often melts into amusement. The bent poise of his body Tells of walls that threw him back, Only to crumble underneath The stunned friendliness of his face. Through the angularly churlish street He walks, and stoops beneath the captured weight Of eyes that do not see him. |
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