Page:Eight Harvard Poets.djvu/44

Incarnation Or need, a myriad men have laid Their sorrows and arisen bold.

Incessantly the long rain falls, Slanting on black walls. But through the dark interminable streets, Along pavements where rain beats Its sharp tattoo, and gas-lamps shine, Greenish gold in the solitude, The vision flames through my mood Of that Italian woman's face, Through the dripping window-pane. 33