A Window Speaks
OH pity me! for day by countless dayAnd night by night in vain anxietyI wait for something that will never come.I long to splutter, crumble, cut the dust,I long to cleave my prisoners, to gashTheir bleeding entrails, slit their tangled gutsUntil they die in anguish on the floor.A window paralysed and stiffened, IMust even stare upon the dull world’s formAnd watch the doings of a thousand clownsRepeated lamentably day by day.Dawn rises not with graceful motion here,But with policemen plodding on their beatAnd whistling apple-faces, clatteringOf milk-cans, painted carts and bicycles;The water in the closet down belowContinually gingles, splish-a-splash,And I go mad for very monotones.The neat grey clerks trip to their officesMeticulously punctual, little bagsKeep runic-rhythm to their gander steps.The sun blinds like a harsh electric bulb,Slicing the street in pools of amber light,Chipping the railings here and chopping thereThe tulips of the houses opposite.The clock strikes nine and now with sleek top-hats,The tea and toast still tasting in their mouths,The Timesnot full digested in their minds,The pompous middle-aged to business goSoliloquising fondly to themselvesAbout the new percentage income tax.Then convex matrons interview the cook.A sunburnt cretin cringes down belowFor pennies, jangling out the tinny notesOf some old catch of Marie Lloyd that scarceCan drag a tune from out its crippled box.Some children skip in time, a monkey bowsAnd capers to the laughing passers-by.The cretin then wheels off and all is stillSave for the singing of the charwoman—“I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,” she singsWith shrill, cracked voice resounding down the streetLike the sharp scrape of tin-tacks desperate,Persistent in the hollowed crystal air,Till sounds dissolve to liquid quietude.The hot dust smeared along the roadway chokesThe sneezing passers-by and slowly mountsInto their nostril-caves distressinglyLike microscopic gnats, but now there comeRefreshing rumblings from the water-cart,Which spits small Beardsley-drops about the streetAnd trickles down into the gutters fast,Whilst I am left to numbly contemplateThe thin, white apron strings of cloud above,Until the raucous luncheon-bell once moreCalls upon men to glut themselves with food.Then hour on hour of thudded octaves; hourOn hour of doddering on yellow keys—Long, shapeless valses, British Grenadiers,Whilst water in the closet down belowPersists in gurgling semitone applause.The clouds grow sullen and the clerks returnAs neat as they set out. But in their minds,(Impenetrable masks), their tired thoughtsSucceed each other, feeble and fatigued.One, after supper and a game of whist,Will rest his run-down clock-work on a bed.The gas-lamps prick their whiteness in the skies,The footsteps of a weary harlot’s treadRemind the street that there is sin abroad.But dismally sin ever fails to lureThese brazen men from happy families,Content to snore beneath their handkerchieves.The clock strikes twelve and I am left aloneTo wait for something that will never come....
OH pity me! for day by countless dayAnd night by night in vain anxietyI wait for something that will never come.I long to splutter, crumble, cut the dust,I long to cleave my prisoners, to gashTheir bleeding entrails, slit their tangled gutsUntil they die in anguish on the floor.A window paralysed and stiffened, IMust even stare upon the dull world’s formAnd watch the doings of a thousand clownsRepeated lamentably day by day.Dawn rises not with graceful motion here,But with policemen plodding on their beatAnd whistling apple-faces, clatteringOf milk-cans, painted carts and bicycles;The water in the closet down belowContinually gingles, splish-a-splash,And I go mad for very monotones.The neat grey clerks trip to their officesMeticulously punctual, little bagsKeep runic-rhythm to their gander steps.The sun blinds like a harsh electric bulb,Slicing the street in pools of amber light,Chipping the railings here and chopping thereThe tulips of the houses opposite.The clock strikes nine and now with sleek top-hats,The tea and toast still tasting in their mouths,The Timesnot full digested in their minds,The pompous middle-aged to business goSoliloquising fondly to themselvesAbout the new percentage income tax.Then convex matrons interview the cook.A sunburnt cretin cringes down belowFor pennies, jangling out the tinny notesOf some old catch of Marie Lloyd that scarceCan drag a tune from out its crippled box.Some children skip in time, a monkey bowsAnd capers to the laughing passers-by.The cretin then wheels off and all is stillSave for the singing of the charwoman—“I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,” she singsWith shrill, cracked voice resounding down the streetLike the sharp scrape of tin-tacks desperate,Persistent in the hollowed crystal air,Till sounds dissolve to liquid quietude.The hot dust smeared along the roadway chokesThe sneezing passers-by and slowly mountsInto their nostril-caves distressinglyLike microscopic gnats, but now there comeRefreshing rumblings from the water-cart,Which spits small Beardsley-drops about the streetAnd trickles down into the gutters fast,Whilst I am left to numbly contemplateThe thin, white apron strings of cloud above,Until the raucous luncheon-bell once moreCalls upon men to glut themselves with food.Then hour on hour of thudded octaves; hourOn hour of doddering on yellow keys—Long, shapeless valses, British Grenadiers,Whilst water in the closet down belowPersists in gurgling semitone applause.The clouds grow sullen and the clerks returnAs neat as they set out. But in their minds,(Impenetrable masks), their tired thoughtsSucceed each other, feeble and fatigued.One, after supper and a game of whist,Will rest his run-down clock-work on a bed.The gas-lamps prick their whiteness in the skies,The footsteps of a weary harlot’s treadRemind the street that there is sin abroad.But dismally sin ever fails to lureThese brazen men from happy families,Content to snore beneath their handkerchieves.The clock strikes twelve and I am left aloneTo wait for something that will never come....
OH pity me! for day by countless dayAnd night by night in vain anxietyI wait for something that will never come.I long to splutter, crumble, cut the dust,I long to cleave my prisoners, to gashTheir bleeding entrails, slit their tangled gutsUntil they die in anguish on the floor.
OH pity me! for day by countless day
And night by night in vain anxiety
I wait for something that will never come.
I long to splutter, crumble, cut the dust,
I long to cleave my prisoners, to gash
Their bleeding entrails, slit their tangled guts
Until they die in anguish on the floor.
A window paralysed and stiffened, IMust even stare upon the dull world’s formAnd watch the doings of a thousand clownsRepeated lamentably day by day.Dawn rises not with graceful motion here,But with policemen plodding on their beatAnd whistling apple-faces, clatteringOf milk-cans, painted carts and bicycles;The water in the closet down belowContinually gingles, splish-a-splash,And I go mad for very monotones.The neat grey clerks trip to their officesMeticulously punctual, little bagsKeep runic-rhythm to their gander steps.The sun blinds like a harsh electric bulb,Slicing the street in pools of amber light,Chipping the railings here and chopping thereThe tulips of the houses opposite.The clock strikes nine and now with sleek top-hats,The tea and toast still tasting in their mouths,The Timesnot full digested in their minds,The pompous middle-aged to business goSoliloquising fondly to themselvesAbout the new percentage income tax.Then convex matrons interview the cook.A sunburnt cretin cringes down belowFor pennies, jangling out the tinny notesOf some old catch of Marie Lloyd that scarceCan drag a tune from out its crippled box.Some children skip in time, a monkey bowsAnd capers to the laughing passers-by.The cretin then wheels off and all is stillSave for the singing of the charwoman—“I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,” she singsWith shrill, cracked voice resounding down the streetLike the sharp scrape of tin-tacks desperate,Persistent in the hollowed crystal air,Till sounds dissolve to liquid quietude.The hot dust smeared along the roadway chokesThe sneezing passers-by and slowly mountsInto their nostril-caves distressinglyLike microscopic gnats, but now there comeRefreshing rumblings from the water-cart,Which spits small Beardsley-drops about the streetAnd trickles down into the gutters fast,Whilst I am left to numbly contemplateThe thin, white apron strings of cloud above,Until the raucous luncheon-bell once moreCalls upon men to glut themselves with food.Then hour on hour of thudded octaves; hourOn hour of doddering on yellow keys—Long, shapeless valses, British Grenadiers,Whilst water in the closet down belowPersists in gurgling semitone applause.The clouds grow sullen and the clerks returnAs neat as they set out. But in their minds,(Impenetrable masks), their tired thoughtsSucceed each other, feeble and fatigued.One, after supper and a game of whist,Will rest his run-down clock-work on a bed.
A window paralysed and stiffened, I
Must even stare upon the dull world’s form
And watch the doings of a thousand clowns
Repeated lamentably day by day.
Dawn rises not with graceful motion here,
But with policemen plodding on their beat
And whistling apple-faces, clattering
Of milk-cans, painted carts and bicycles;
The water in the closet down below
Continually gingles, splish-a-splash,
And I go mad for very monotones.
The neat grey clerks trip to their offices
Meticulously punctual, little bags
Keep runic-rhythm to their gander steps.
The sun blinds like a harsh electric bulb,
Slicing the street in pools of amber light,
Chipping the railings here and chopping there
The tulips of the houses opposite.
The clock strikes nine and now with sleek top-hats,
The tea and toast still tasting in their mouths,
The Timesnot full digested in their minds,
The pompous middle-aged to business go
Soliloquising fondly to themselves
About the new percentage income tax.
Then convex matrons interview the cook.
A sunburnt cretin cringes down below
For pennies, jangling out the tinny notes
Of some old catch of Marie Lloyd that scarce
Can drag a tune from out its crippled box.
Some children skip in time, a monkey bows
And capers to the laughing passers-by.
The cretin then wheels off and all is still
Save for the singing of the charwoman—
“I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,” she sings
With shrill, cracked voice resounding down the street
Like the sharp scrape of tin-tacks desperate,
Persistent in the hollowed crystal air,
Till sounds dissolve to liquid quietude.
The hot dust smeared along the roadway chokes
The sneezing passers-by and slowly mounts
Into their nostril-caves distressingly
Like microscopic gnats, but now there come
Refreshing rumblings from the water-cart,
Which spits small Beardsley-drops about the street
And trickles down into the gutters fast,
Whilst I am left to numbly contemplate
The thin, white apron strings of cloud above,
Until the raucous luncheon-bell once more
Calls upon men to glut themselves with food.
Then hour on hour of thudded octaves; hour
On hour of doddering on yellow keys—
Long, shapeless valses, British Grenadiers,
Whilst water in the closet down below
Persists in gurgling semitone applause.
The clouds grow sullen and the clerks return
As neat as they set out. But in their minds,
(Impenetrable masks), their tired thoughts
Succeed each other, feeble and fatigued.
One, after supper and a game of whist,
Will rest his run-down clock-work on a bed.
The gas-lamps prick their whiteness in the skies,The footsteps of a weary harlot’s treadRemind the street that there is sin abroad.But dismally sin ever fails to lureThese brazen men from happy families,Content to snore beneath their handkerchieves.The clock strikes twelve and I am left aloneTo wait for something that will never come....
The gas-lamps prick their whiteness in the skies,
The footsteps of a weary harlot’s tread
Remind the street that there is sin abroad.
But dismally sin ever fails to lure
These brazen men from happy families,
Content to snore beneath their handkerchieves.
The clock strikes twelve and I am left alone
To wait for something that will never come....