XXII
The bearded rag-picker
seated among heaps of rags in a basement
sings:
It was born that way;
that is the way it was born—
the way it came out of some body
to stink:
nothing will change it—
neither pity nor kindness.
A paralytic,
hands trembling like water,
listens.

Behind her
the sparrows cluster upon one tree
and leave the others barren;
and the town clock,
that stern accountant,
tells us it is six,
and would persuade us that the night is spent.