Here， where men's eyes were empty and as bright

    As the blank windows set in glaring brick，

    When the wind strengthens from the sea —— and night

    Drops like a fog and makes the breath come thick；

    By the deserted¹ paths， the vacant halls，

    One may see figures， twisted shades and lean，

    Like the mad shapes that crawl an Indian screen，

    Or paunchy smears² you find on prison walls.

    Turn the knob gently！ There's the Thumbless Man，

    Still weaving glass and silk into a dream，

    Although the wall shows through him —— and the Khan

    Journeys Cathay beside a paper stream.

    A Rabbit Woman chitters by the door ——

    —— Chilly³ the grave-smell comes from the turned sod ——

    Come —— lift the curtain —— and be cold before

    The silence of the eight men who were God！

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