Midnight fits me with its stifling garment;
The moon bit deep by little rings of teeth;
A sour rain, fog’s bilious harvest
Hisses like a kettle when it hits the street.

I loved you, little mime, with your bright mouth, craving
To touch your eyes to mine, those boxed-up pearls,
Caught in the fogs of the black ships leaving,
While the white-capped boys call to the cinder-girls.