The sound's deceit
Of walking feet
On metalled street:
The river smells
And clock-tower bells:
White immortelles
On sooted graves
Where grass behaves
Like spiky waves:
So this is what the midnight keeps,
What soaks and seeps
While each one sleeps!
O then some moment from this stew
Must be snatched out for me and you,
When we wander through the blight
Of pest-house voices without fright.