V
Winter is here indeed; the leaves have long been swept
from the winding walks; trees and ground are brown—
all is in order.
Only the lamps now flourish in the park.
We walk about and talk;
but the troubles of the unsuccessful middle-aged
are so uninteresting!

VI
Now it is cold: where the snow was melting
the walk crackles with black ice beneath my careful steps;
and the snow is old and pitted,
here grey with ashes and there yellow with sand.
The walks lie in the cold shadow
of houses;
pigeons and sparrows are in a hollow
for cold, out of the wind; but here,
where the sunshine pours through a narrow street
upon a little tree, black and naked of every leaf,
the sparrows are in the sun, thick upon the twigs.
Those who in their lives braved the anger of their fellows,
bronze statues now,
with outstretched arm or sword
brave only the weather.
I find myself talking aloud
as I walk;
that is bad.
Only Don Juan would believe
I am in conversation with the
snow-covered statues;
only St. Francis
that I am talking to the sparrows
in the naked bushes,
to the pigeons
in the snow.

VII
The ropes in the wind
slapping the flag-pole
(the flag has been hauled down);
behind the bare tree-tops
the lights of an aeroplane
moving away slowly.

A star or two shining
between factory chimneys;
the street dark and still
because the street-lamp has been broken
and it is cold and late.