Only here if
I look for them; one sauntering forth
In her black shawl or
Pinned to the doorway with the long street
To one eye like a telescope;
The other just a face
Floating in the turnsmoke within;
She was the saint, hobnobbing with the greater galaxies,
Taking credit accordingly
When I passed examinations.
I love them now who never
Saw them really, or unwillingly: days
They look out of windy November with
The chimneys in a smudge
Of illiterate initials all down the street.
Alive, the darlings, in a sort of love for me;
Penury’s hangovers, yet
How they’d hate this,to be the poor
Relations to a poem, tugged forth from
Their decent anonymity;
Bridget and Delia, spinsters deceased;
Tom brother, the breadwinner, carrying the can,
In the Temperance Hall the Parliamentarian,
And Michael the dandy with the highbred look of hunger
And the delicate impossible languor.
Too late I want to know them now,
Like God a lover, who must share with them forever
This furrow of a street
Full of the ghostly bloom
Of dead semen.