Discovery

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.