A FOGGY MORNING
The Sun's bright eye is spectacled in mist;
Fog-horns hoot; gray hands on their lips make strange
The voices of familiar noise, and Change
Holds ev'rything in soundless space, abyssed.
Fog-horns hoot; gray hands on their lips make strange
The voices of familiar noise, and Change
Holds ev'rything in soundless space, abyssed.
Like spectres huge, dragging their dampened shrouds,
Dim forms approach on silence-sandaled feet;
Sepulchrally they one another greet,
Then merge and vanish in terrestrial clouds.
Dim forms approach on silence-sandaled feet;
Sepulchrally they one another greet,
Then merge and vanish in terrestrial clouds.
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