III
I stand before a window in a lifted wall and the bonds of the horizon are broken,
I look into the bowl of the distance and behold a great matter;
I am aware of trifles.
I see the long quays at Bordeaux, where the wine-carts creak so heavily;
And the smooth gray stream alert with ships,
And the graceful snarl of rigging on the skyline.
I see the old gate through which innumerable days have trailed their evening draperies...
Nearby sits a handsome officer under an awning;
He is reading the news, and drinking a glass of red wine at a blue-topped table,
And occasionally warming himself in the voluptuous glances
Of the slim black-eyed girl who brings his silver...
I see the groups of soldiers in their faded uniforms,
Some whole, some stamping about on wooden pegs,
With bits of precious ribbon on their breasts.
