Here was a man who watched the river flow Past the huge town, one gray November day.
Round him in narrow high-piled streets at
The boys made merry as they saw him go,
Murmuring half-loud, with eyes upon the stream,
The immortal screed he held within his hand.
For he was walking in an April
With Faust and Helen.
Shadowy as a
Was the prose-world, the river and the town.
Wild joy possessed him; through enchanted
He saw the cranes of Ibycus swoop down.
He closed the page, he lifted up his eyes,
Lo—a black line of birds in wavering
Bore him the greetings of the deathless dead!
