AROUND these city towers there churns And swirls a sea of cloud, Wind-driven—torn to lace—to ferns Of foam,—and breaking loud Along these crags, the lighted tall Dark edges of the long sky-wall. In our caverns of dim air Hidden dark and deep, We can never be aware Of strong-pulsed winds, that keep The cloud-foam flung to upper skies, An eddying whiteness to our eyes. In these streets of quiet dark, We can only know That some star with liquid spark, Moving very low To a place where clouds are thin, Passing over, glances in. |