Curtains drawn back, the door ajar.
All winter long, it seemed, a darkening Began.
But now the moonlight and the odors of the street Conspire and combine toward one community.
These are the rooms of Robinson.
Bleached, wan, and colorless this light, as though All the blurred daybreaks of the spring Found an asylum here, perhaps for Robinson alone,
Who sleeps.
Were there more music sifted through the floors And moonlight of a different kind,
He might awake to hear the news at ten,
Which will be shocking, moderately.
This sleep is from exhaustion, but his old desire To die like this has known a lessening.
Now there is only this coldness that he has to wear.
But not in sleep.—Observant scholar, traveller,
Or uncouth bearded figure squatting in a cave,
A keen-eyed sniper on the barricades,
A heretic in catacombs, a famed roué,
A beggar on the streets, the confidant of Popes— All these are Robinson in sleep, who mumbles as he turns, “There is something in this madhouse that I symbolize— This city—nightmare—black—” He wakes in sweat To the terrible moonlight and what might be Silence.
It drones like wires far beyond the roofs,
And the long curtains blow into the room.
