Beneath the flat and paper sky



The sun, a demon's eye,



Glowed through the air, that mask of glass;



All wand'ring sounds that pass



Seemed out of tune, as if the light



Were fiddle-strings pulled tight.



The market-square with spire and bell



Clanged out the hour in Hell;



The busy chatter of the heat



Shrilled like a parakeet;



And shuddering at the noonday light



The dust lay dead and white



As powder on a mummy's face,



Or fawned with simian grace



Round booths with many a hard bright toy



And wooden brittle joy:



The cap and bells of Time the Clown



That, jangling, whistled down



Young cherubs hidden in the guise



Of every bird that flies;



And star-bright masks for youth to wear,



Lest any dream that fare



-Bright pilgrim-past our ken, should see



Hints of Reality.



Upon the sharp-set grass, shrill-green,



Tall trees like rattles lean,



And jangle sharp and dissily;



But when night falls they sign



Till Pierrot moon steals slyly in,



His face more white than sin,



Black-masked, and with cool touch lays bare



Each cherry, plum, and pear.



Then underneath the veiled eyes



Of houses, darkness lies--



Tall houses; like a hopeless prayer



They cleave the sly dumb air.



Blind are those houses, paper-thin



Old shadows hid therein,



With sly and crazy movements creep



Like marionettes, and weep.



Tall windows show Infinity;



And, hard reality,



The candles weep and pry and dance



Like lives mocked at by Chance.



The rooms are vast as Sleep within;



When once I ventured in,



Chill Silence, like a surging sea,



Slowly enveloped me.