Chapter I

All down the somnolent street where pale tinged houses dream
The negroes go, black faces crowding together;
And between the palm leaves dancing with lethargic gestures,
The bright long water spreads, green as a parrot's wing--
We have rest here and a monotony of wheels,
A peaceful noise like bees that moan in June--
And the sun rusts not, but his brazen heraldries
Tarnished with evening are burnished with the dawn.
Yet pain comes stabbing in the night with silver knife through the
window,
A blanched moon full of fear and the burden of desire--
And nothing rids us utterly of grief,
We who have pilgrim souls that will not sleep.