IMPRESSIONS
This is the Gate of the Gray City—wroughtWith piled roofs and steeples dimly seenThru the gray dusk—pale, wistful flakes of fireKindled about its lower fringe—vast murk—A snuffling monster with an evil eyeThat surly pants to work some will unknown,Blowing white breaths—a semaphoreWith lifted arm—a form that swings a lightIn arcs, against infinitude of gray,Uneasy sounds, the clink and clank and groan;Of things inanimate—the curves of railsIn rhythmical convergence gathered up—(And gathering up what burdens from afar!)Monotony—monotony—despair!This is the Gate of the Gray City.
This is the Gate of the Gray City—wroughtWith piled roofs and steeples dimly seenThru the gray dusk—pale, wistful flakes of fireKindled about its lower fringe—vast murk—A snuffling monster with an evil eyeThat surly pants to work some will unknown,Blowing white breaths—a semaphoreWith lifted arm—a form that swings a lightIn arcs, against infinitude of gray,Uneasy sounds, the clink and clank and groan;Of things inanimate—the curves of railsIn rhythmical convergence gathered up—(And gathering up what burdens from afar!)Monotony—monotony—despair!This is the Gate of the Gray City.
This is the Gate of the Gray City—wroughtWith piled roofs and steeples dimly seenThru the gray dusk—pale, wistful flakes of fireKindled about its lower fringe—vast murk—A snuffling monster with an evil eyeThat surly pants to work some will unknown,Blowing white breaths—a semaphoreWith lifted arm—a form that swings a lightIn arcs, against infinitude of gray,Uneasy sounds, the clink and clank and groan;Of things inanimate—the curves of railsIn rhythmical convergence gathered up—(And gathering up what burdens from afar!)Monotony—monotony—despair!This is the Gate of the Gray City.
This is the Gate of the Gray City—wrought
With piled roofs and steeples dimly seen
Thru the gray dusk—pale, wistful flakes of fire
Kindled about its lower fringe—vast murk—
A snuffling monster with an evil eye
That surly pants to work some will unknown,
Blowing white breaths—a semaphore
With lifted arm—a form that swings a light
In arcs, against infinitude of gray,
Uneasy sounds, the clink and clank and groan;
Of things inanimate—the curves of rails
In rhythmical convergence gathered up—
(And gathering up what burdens from afar!)
Monotony—monotony—despair!
This is the Gate of the Gray City.