Wallace Stevens


The house-fronts flare
In the blown rain
The ghostly street-lamps
Have a pallid glare,

A wanderer beats,
With bitter droop,
Along the waste
Of vacant streets.

Suppose some glimmer
Recalled for him
An odorous room,
A fan's fleet shimmer

Of silvery spangle,
Two startled eyes,
A still trembling hand
And its only bangle.

spoken = Doug Ross