A STREET at night, a silent square 
 That mirth forbids; 
Whose windows, with drawn lips and narrowed lids, 
 Resent the intruder's stare.

Where winds are cautious in their play, 
 Where only steals 
Some meager brougham on its muffled wheels 
 Before the portals grey.

But suddenly a window swings, 
 A hand is laid 
For one white moment on the balustrade, 
 And benediction brings.

I linger . . . but, O influence malign 
 I watch a snail 
Crawl casually along the painted rail, 
 Where I had built a shrine!