The round red sun heaves darkly out of the sea. <br />The walls and towers are warmed and gleam. <br />Sounds go drowsily up from streets and wharves. <br />The city stirs like one that is half in dream. <br /> <br />And the mist flows up by dazzling walls and windows, <br />Where one by one we wake and rise. <br />We gaze at the pale grey lustrous sea a moment, <br />We rub the darkness from our eyes, <br /> <br />And face our thousand devious secret mornings . . . <br />And do not see how the pale mist, slowly ascending, <br />Shaped by the sun, shines like a white-robed dreamer <br />Compassionate over our towers bending. <br /> <br />There, like one who gazes into a crystal, <br />He broods upon our city with sombre eyes; <br />He sees our secret fears vaguely unfolding, <br />Sees cloudy symbols shape to rise. <br /> <br />Each gleaming point of light is like a seed <br />Dilating swiftly to coiling fires. <br />Each cloud becomes a rapidly dimming face, <br />Each hurrying face records its strange desires. <br /> <br />We descend our separate stairs toward the day, <br />Merge in the somnolent mass that fills the street, <br />Lift our eyes to the soft blue space of sky, <br />And walk by the well-known walls with accustomed feet.<br /><br />Conrad Potter Aiken<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-house-of-dust-part-02-01-the-round-red-sun-h-2/
