Grotesque figures in dimly lit windows,
Half broken, half forgotten objects;
Lurking in those hazy lights,
Looking with their dreary eyes,
At cabs lurching, men trudging by.
Dull and grey and grisly pieces,
Exhumed from their graves,
Lounging with ghoulish ease,
Epitaphs abrased by ages.
Broken cameos, graceless, weatherbeaten stones
Leaden jars that held mystic brews
Or silent busts with their secret lores, whatever they be;
They inspire poetry in me.
