His heart beating, his lungs full of air and pride,
And the strong shadow cutting the golden towers.

Then the cold fell, and the winter, with grimy snow,
With the overcoatless men with the purple hands
Walking between two signboards in the street
And the sign on their backs said "Winter" and the soiled
papers
Blew fretfully up and down and froze in the ice
As the lukewarm air blew up from the grated holes.

This lasted a long time, till the skin was dry
And the cheeks hot with the fever and the cough sharp.

On the cold days, the cops had faces like blue meat,
And then there was snow and pure snow and tons of snow
And the whole noise stopping, marvellously and slowly,
Till you could hear the shovels scraping the stone,
Scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch, like the digging of iron mice.

Nothing else but that sound, and the air most pure,
Most pure, most fragrant and most innocent,
And, next day, the boys made dirty balls of the snow.

This season lasted so long we were weary of it.

We were very weary indeed when the spring came to us.

And it came.

I do not know how even yet, but there was a turning,
A change, a melting, a difference, a new smell
Though not that of any flower.

It came from both

Rivers, I think, or across them. It sneaked in
On a market truck, a girl in a yellow hat

-5-