The dogged rain
Of unawakened growths
Is hurling down its spear-points
Into our walks and streets. What new beauty
Are you striking out of dingy things? The little pawn-shop
Droops to the pavement
Battered and damp,
Its blue-lighted window
Guarding a stingy handful
Of cheap carved brass trays
Bird feathers, glass clocks,
And green candle-sticks. People step tightly by
Dodging hither and thither
In the misty way. But I have looked down into
These rain-spear-stung streets
And found mirrored there
An unguessed beauty of dingy things: Poured gold,
Melted blue,
Odd-shaped shadows of men. Oh, I do not want realities!
Give me their misshapen lovely images
And unreached forms.