One, from his high bright window in a tower, <br />Leans out, as evening falls, <br />And sees the advancing curtain of the shower <br />Splashing its silver on roofs and walls: <br />Sees how, swift as a shadow, it crosses the city, <br />And murmurs beyond far walls to the sea, <br />Leaving a glimmer of water in the dark canyons, <br />And silver falling from eave and tree. <br /> <br />One, from his high bright window, looking down, <br />Peers like a dreamer over the rain-bright town, <br />And thinks its towers are like a dream. <br />The western windows flame in the sun's last flare, <br />Pale roofs begin to gleam. <br /> <br />Looking down from a window high in a wall <br />He sees us all; <br />Lifting our pallid faces towards the rain, <br />Searching the sky, and going our ways again, <br />Standing in doorways, waiting under the trees . . . <br />There, in the high bright window he dreams, and sees <br />What we are blind to,—we who mass and crowd <br />From wall to wall in the darkening of a cloud. <br /> <br />The gulls drift slowly above the city of towers, <br />Over the roofs to the darkening sea they fly; <br />Night falls swiftly on an evening of rain. <br />The yellow lamps wink one by one again. <br />The towers reach higher and blacker against the sky.<br /><br />Conrad Potter Aiken<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-house-of-dust-part-01-02-one-from-his-high-b-2/
