THE east wind blows in the street to-day; 
The sky is blue, yet the town looks grey. 
'Tis the wind of ice, the wind of fire, 
Of cold despair and of hot desire, 
Which chills the flesh to aches and pains, 
And sends a fever through all the veins. 

From end to end, with aimless feet, 
All day long have I paced the street. 
My limbs are weary, but in my breast 
Stirs the goad of a mad unrest. 
I would give anything to stay 
The little wheel that turns in my brain; 
The little wheel that turns all day, 
That turns all night with might and main. 

What is the thing I fear, and why? 
Nay, but the world is all awry—
The wind's in the east, the sun's in the sky. 
The gas-lamps gleam in a golden line; 
The ruby lights of the hansoms shine, 
Glance, and flicker like fire-flies bright; 
The wind has fallen with the night, 
And once again the town seems fair 
Thwart the mist that hangs i' the air. 

And o'er, at last, my spirit steals 
A weary peace; peace that conceals 
Within its inner depths the grain 
Of hopes that yet shall flower again.