The woman is dead.

She died--you know the way. Just as we planned.

Smiling, with open sunlit eyes.

Smiling upon the outstretched fatal hand . . .'

He folds his letter, steps softly down the stairs.

The doors are closed and silent. A gas-jet flares.

His shadow disturbs a shadow of bal.u.s.trades.

The door swings shut behind. Night roars above him.

Into the night he fades.

Wind; wind; wind; carving the walls; Blowing the water that gleams in the street; Blowing the rain, the sleet.

In the dark alley, an old tree cracks and falls, Oak-boughs moan in the haunted air; Lamps blow down with a crash and tinkle of gla.s.s . . .

Darkness whistles . . . Wild hours pa.s.s . . .

And those whom sleep eludes lie wide-eyed, hearing Above their heads a goblin night go by; Children are waked, and cry, The young girl hears the roar in her sleep, and dreams That her lover is caught in a burning tower, She clutches the pillow, she gasps for breath, she screams . . .

And then by degrees her breath grows quiet and slow, She dreams of an evening, long ago: Of colored lanterns balancing under trees, Some of them softly catching afire; And beneath the lanterns a motionless face she sees, Golden with lamplight, smiling, serene . . .

The leaves are a pale and glittering green, The sound of horns blows over the trampled gra.s.s, Shadows of dancers pa.s.s . . .

The face smiles closer to hers, she tries to lean Backward, away, the eyes burn close and strange, The face is beginning to change,-- It is her lover, she no longer desires to resist, She is held and kissed.

She closes her eyes, and melts in a seethe of flame . . .

With a smoking ghost of shame . . .

Wind, wind, wind . . . Wind in an enormous brain Blowing dark thoughts like fallen leaves . . .

The wind shrieks, the wind grieves; It dashes the leaves on walls, it whirls then again; And the enormous sleeper vaguely and stupidly dreams And desires to stir, to resist a ghost of pain.

One, whom the city imprisoned because of his cunning, Who dreamed for years in a tower, Seizes this hour Of tumult and wind. He files through the rusted bar, Leans his face to the rain, laughs up at the night, Slides down the knotted sheet, swings over the wall, To fall to the street with a cat-like fall, Slinks round a quavering rim of windy light, And at last is gone, Leaving his empty cell for the pallor of dawn . . .

The mother whose child was buried to-day Turns her face to the window; her face is grey; And all her body is cold with the coldness of rain.

He would have grown as easily as a tree, He would have spread a pleasure of shade above her, He would have been his father again . . .

His growth was ended by a freezing invisible shadow.

She lies, and does not move, and is stabbed by the rain.

Wind, wind, wind; we toss and dream; We dream we are clouds and stars, blown in a stream: Windows rattle above our beds; We reach vague-gesturing hands, we lift our heads, Hear sounds far off,--and dream, with quivering breath, Our curious separate ways through life and death.

VIII.

The white fog creeps from the cold sea over the city, Over the pale grey tumbled towers,-- And settles among the roofs, the pale grey walls.

Along damp sinuous streets it crawls, Curls like a dream among the motionless trees And seems to freeze.

The fog slips ghostlike into a thousand rooms, Whirls over sleeping faces, Spins in an atomy dance round misty street lamps; And blows in cloudy waves over open s.p.a.ces . . .

And one from his high window, looking down, Peers at the cloud-white town, And thinks its island towers are like a dream . . .

It seems an enormous sleeper, within whose brain Laborious shadows revolve and break and gleam.

PART II.

I.

The round red sun heaves darkly out of the sea.

The walls and towers are warmed and gleam.

Sounds go drowsily up from streets and wharves.

The city stirs like one that is half in dream.

And the mist flows up by dazzling walls and windows, Where one by one we wake and rise.

We gaze at the pale grey l.u.s.trous sea a moment, We rub the darkness from our eyes,

And face our thousand devious secret mornings . . .

And do not see how the pale mist, slowly ascending, Shaped by the sun, shines like a white-robed dreamer Compa.s.sionate over our towers bending.

There, like one who gazes into a crystal, He broods upon our city with sombre eyes; He sees our secret fears vaguely unfolding, Sees cloudy symbols shape to rise.

Each gleaming point of light is like a seed Dilating swiftly to coiling fires.

Each cloud becomes a rapidly dimming face, Each hurrying face records its strange desires.

We descend our separate stairs toward the day, Merge in the somnolent ma.s.s that fills the street, Lift our eyes to the soft blue s.p.a.ce of sky, And walk by the well-known walls with accustomed feet.

II. THE FULFILLED DREAM

More towers must yet be built--more towers destroyed-- Great rocks hoisted in air; And he must seek his bread in high pale sunlight With gulls about him, and clouds just over his eyes . . .

And so he did not mention his dream of falling But drank his coffee in silence, and heard in his ears That horrible whistle of wind, and felt his breath Sucked out of him, and saw the tower flash by And the small tree swell beneath him . . .

He patted his boy on the head, and kissed his wife, Looked quickly around the room, to remember it,-- And so went out . . . For once, he forgot his pail.

Something had changed--but it was not the street-- The street was just the same--it was himself.

Puddles flashed in the sun. In the p.a.w.n-shop door The same old black cat winked green amber eyes; The butcher stood by his window tying his ap.r.o.n; The same men walked beside him, smoking pipes, Reading the morning paper . . .

He would not yield, he thought, and walk more slowly, As if he knew for certain he walked to death: But with his usual pace,--deliberate, firm, Looking about him calmly, watching the world, Taking his ease . . . Yet, when he thought again Of the same dream, now dreamed three separate times, Always the same, and heard that whistling wind, And saw the windows flashing upward past him,-- He slowed his pace a little, and thought with horror How monstrously that small tree thrust to meet him! . . .

He slowed his pace a little and remembered his wife.

Was forty, then, too old for work like this?

Why should it be? He'd never been afraid-- His eye was sure, his hand was steady . . .

But dreams had meanings.

He walked more slowly, and looked along the roofs, All built by men, and saw the pale blue sky; And suddenly he was dizzy with looking at it, It seemed to whirl and swim, It seemed the color of terror, of speed, of death . . .

He lowered his eyes to the stones, he walked more slowly; His thoughts were blown and scattered like leaves; He thought of the pail . . . Why, then, was it forgotten?

Because he would not need it?

Then, just as he was grouping his thoughts again About that drug-store corner, under an arc-lamp, Where first he met the girl whom he would marry,-- That blue-eyed innocent girl, in a soft blouse,-- He waved his hand for signal, and up he went In the dusty chute that hugged the wall; Above the tree; from girdered floor to floor; Above the flattening roofs, until the sea Lay wide and waved before him . . . And then he stepped Giddily out, from that security, To the red rib of iron against the sky, And walked along it, feeling it sing and tremble; And looking down one instant, saw the tree Just as he dreamed it was; and looked away, And up again, feeling his blood go wild.

He gave the signal; the long girder swung Closer to him, dropped clanging into place, Almost pushing him off. Pneumatic hammers Began their madhouse clatter, the white-hot rivets Were tossed from below and deftly caught in pails; He signalled again, and wiped his mouth, and thought A place so high in the air should be more quiet.

The tree, far down below, teased at his eyes, Teased at the corners of them, until he looked, And felt his body go suddenly small and light; Felt his brain float off like a dwindling vapor; And heard a whistle of wind, and saw a tree Come plunging up to him, and thought to himself, 'By G.o.d--I'm done for now, the dream was right . . .'

III. INTERLUDE

The warm sun dreams in the dust, the warm sun falls On bright red roofs and walls; The trees in the park exhale a ghost of rain; We go from door to door in the streets again, Talking, laughing, dreaming, turning our faces, Recalling other times and places . . .