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The dogged rain
Of unawakened growths
Is hurling down its spear-points
Into our walks and streets.


What new beauty
Are you striking out of dingy things?


The little pawn-shop
Droops to the pavement
Battered and damp,
Its blue-lighted window
Guarding a stingy handful
Of cheap carved brass trays
Bird feathers, glass clocks,
And green candle-sticks.


People step tightly by
Dodging hither and thither
In the misty way.


But I have looked down into
These rain-spear-stung streets
And found mirrored there
An unguessed beauty of dingy things:

Poured gold,
Melted blue,
Odd-shaped shadows of men.

Oh, I do not want realities!
Give me their misshapen lovely images
And unreached forms.