Burning in perpetual adoration.

THE FOG

Out of the lamp-bestarred and clouded dusk--
Snaring, illuding, concealing,
Magically conjuring--
Turning to fairy-coaches
Beetle-backed limousines
Scampering under the great Arch--
Making a decoy of blue overalls
And mystery of a scarlet shawl--
Indolently--
Knowing no impediment of its sure advance--
Descends the fog.

FACES

A late snow beats
With cold white fists upon the tenements--
Hurriedly drawing blinds and shutters,
Like tall old slatterns
Pulling aprons about their heads.

Lights slanting out of Mott Street
Gibber out,
Or dribble through bar-room slits,
Anonymous shapes
Conniving behind shuttered panes
Caper and disappear...