The Snow Floats Down Upon Us, Mingled With Rain . . . It Eddies Around Pale Lilac Lamps, And Falls Down Golden-Windowed Walls. We Were All Born Of Flesh, In A Flare Of Pain, We Do Not Remember The Red Roots Whence We Rose, But We Know That We Rose And Walked, That After A While We Shall Lie Down Again. The Snow Floats Down Upon Us, We Turn, We Turn, Through Gorges Filled With Light We Sound And Flow . . . One Is Struck Down And Hurt, We Crowd About Him, We Bear Him Away, Gaze After His Listless Body; But Whether He Lives Or Dies We Do Not Know. One Of Us Sings In The Street, And We Listen To Him; The Words Ring Over Us Like Vague Bells Of Sorrow. He Sings Of A House He Lived In Long Ago. It Is Strange; This House Of Dust Was The House I Lived In; The House You Lived In, The House That All Of Us Know. And Coiling Slowly About Him, And Laughing At Him, And Throwing Him Pennies, We Bear Away A Mournful Echo Of Other Times And Places, And Follow A Dream . . . A Dream That Will Not Stay. Down Long Broad Flights Of Lamplit Stairs We Flow; Noisy, In Scattered Waves, Crowding And Shouting; In Broken Slow Cascades. The Gardens Extend Before Us . . . We Spread Out Swiftly; Trees Are Above Us, And Darkness. The Canyon Fades . . . And We Recall, With A Gleaming Stab Of Sadness, Vaguely And Incoherently, Some Dream Of A World We Came From, A World Of Sun-Blue Hills . . . A Black Wood Whispers Around Us, Green Eyes Gleam; Someone Cries In The Forest, And Someone Kills. We Flow To The East, To The White-Lined Shivering Sea; We Reach To The West, Where The Whirling Sun Went Down; We Close Our Eyes To Music In Bright Cafees. We Diverge From Clamorous Streets To Streets That Are Silent. We Loaf Where The Wind-Spilled Fountain Plays. And, Growing Tired, We Turn Aside At Last, Remember Our Secret Selves, Seek Out Our Towers, Lay Weary Hands On The Banisters, And Climb; Climbing, Each, To His Little Four-Square Dream Of Love Or Lust Or Beauty Or Death Or Crime.