I stand at noon upon the heated flags <br /> At the bleached crossing of two streets, and dream <br /> With brain scarce conscious now the hurrying stream <br /> Of noonday passengers is done. Two hags <br /> Stand at an open doorway piled with bags <br /> And jabber hideously. Just at their feet <br /> A small, half-naked child screams in the street, <br /> A blind man yonder, a mere hunch of rags, <br /> Keeps the scant shadow of the eaves, and scowls, <br /> Counting his coppers. Through the open glare <br /> Thunders an empty wagon, from whose trail <br /> A lean dog shoots into the startled square, <br /> Wildly revolves and soothes his hapless tail, <br /> Piercing the noon with intermittent howls.<br /><br />Archibald Lampman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/reality-4/
