And Eugene watched the slow fusion of the seasons;
He saw the royal processional of the months;
He saw the summer light eat like a river into dark;
He saw dark triumphant again
And he saw the minute-winning days, like flies, buzz home to death.
In summer, full day had come before he finished:
He walked home in a world of wakenings.
The first cars were grouped on the square as he passed,
Their new green paint giving them the pleasant appearance of toys.
The huge battered cans of the milkmen glinted cleanly in the sun.
Light fell hopefully upon the swarthy greasiness, George Charkales.
Nightman of the Athens Café.
The Hellenistic Dawn.
And in Uneeda No. 1, upon the Square, Eugene sat
Washing an egg sandwich down with long swallows of pungent coffee
Stooled in a friendly company of motormen, policemen, chauffeurs, plasterers, and masons.
It was very pleasant, he felt, to complete one’s work
When all the world was beginning theirs
He went home under singing trees of birds.
In autumn, a late red moon rode low in the skies till morning.
The air was filled with dropping leaves.
There was a solemn thunder of great trees upon the hills;
Sad, phantasmal whisperings and the vast cathedral muse deepened in his heart.
In winter, he went down joyously into the dark howling wind
Leaning his weight upon its advancing wall as it swept up a hill.
And when in early spring the small cold rain fell from the reeking sky,
He was content. He was alone.