To Me At My Fifth-Floor Window The Chimney-Pots In Rows Are Sets Of Pipes Pandean For Every Wind That Blows; And The Smoke That Whirls And Eddies In A Thousand Times And Keys Is Really A Visible Music Set To My Reveries. O Monstrous Pipes, Melodious With Fitful Tune And Dream, The Clouds Are Your Only Audience, Her Thought Is Your Only Theme! 1875