There Was A Man Who Watched The River Flow Past The Huge Town, One Gray November Day. Round Him In Narrow High-Piled Streets At Play The Boys Made Merry As They Saw Him Go, Murmuring Half-Loud, With Eyes Upon The Stream, The Immortal Screed He Held Within His Hand. For He Was Walking In An April Land With Faust And Helen. Shadowy As A Dream Was The Prose-World, The River And The Town. Wild Joy Possessed Him; Through Enchanted Skies He Saw The Cranes Of Ibycus Swoop Down. He Closed The Page, He Lifted Up His Eyes, Lo - A Black Line Of Birds In Wavering Thread Bore Him The Greetings Of The Deathless Dead!