Lovely of Alleys
Twisted of Nights
Who signed the deed on the soul of their heart, those Evelings who yet varnish fruit? When down comes the rain, and the trees rip and swing, and they sail their own mast-posts to cloot…
With what do they shine in the dims of the dark, their beautifuls stretched for display? Who kept them running, who primed them so wrong, who came thence to disrupt sweet play?