63 A MORNING WALK Driven from his bed by troubled sleep In which he dreamt of being lost Upon a hill too high for him (A modest hill whose sides grew steep), He stood where several highways crossed And saw the city, cold and dim, Where only human hands sell cheap. It was an old, recurring dream, That made him pause upon a heighto Alone, he waited for the sun, And felt his blood a sluggist stream. Why had it given him no light, His native place he could not shun, The marsh where things are what they seem? Barbaric city sick with slums, Deprived of seasons, blessed with rains, Its hawkers, beggars, iron-lunged, Processions led by frantic drums, A million purgatorial lanes, And child-like masses, many-tongued, Whose wages are in words and crumbso He turned away. The morning breeze Released no secrets to his earSo The more he stared the less he saw Among the individual trees The middle of his journey nears- Is he among the men of st^aw Who think they go which way they please? Returning to his dream, he knew That everything would be the sameo Constricting as his formal dress, The pain of his fragmented vieWo Too late and small his insights came, And now his memories oppress, His will is like the morning deWo The garden on the hill is cool, Its hedges cut to look like birds Or mythic beasts are still asleepo His past is like a muddy pool From which he cannot hope for words. The city wakes, where fame is cheap, And he belongs, an active fooL