Poets

After science, we have perfumes of various sorts.

The fog peers in the windows, passes 'neath the lamps Settles in the doorways and huddles from the damp Slips inside the houses, rooms, the sleeper's bed and dreams It rolls him over, turns him out into the shrouded street.

I ran into an old time sailor, up on Market Street; We had a cup of coffee, his last name was McLees; He fought in the Pacific, on Portsmouth submarines; I asked about the Squalus, this is what he told me.