This pallid little man in number six whose bowler hat

He received when Experience and Maturity knighted him for his acts of coldness,

He too emerges without his proper language,

Having decided his precise angers may be left for to-morrow.

Miss Ames, however, crunches off to church,

For the Lord be praised for her smudgeless linens of living,

For rows of ironed napkins of inscrutably righteous nightlife;

God must be thanked for her slowly receding vision.

She mills to the glinting chapel with milkweak movements–

Sun scanning her eyes and pleasant little lusts

Whispering at the outposts of her soul.

Spring, mcmxliii