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Rh III

I stand before a window in a lifted wall and the bonds of the horizon are broken,

I look into the bowl of the distance and behold a great matter;

I am aware of trifles.

I see the long quays at Bordeaux, where the wine-carts creak so heavily;

And the smooth gray stream alert with ships,

And the graceful snarl of rigging on the skyline.

I see the old gate through which innumerable days have trailed their evening draperies...

Nearby sits a handsome officer under an awning;

He is reading the news, and drinking a glass of red wine at a blue-topped table,

And occasionally warming himself in the voluptuous glances

Of the slim black-eyed girl who brings his silver...

I see the groups of soldiers in their faded uniforms,

Some whole, some stamping about on wooden pegs,

With bits of precious ribbon on their breasts.

I see the flower venders selling flowers in the street—