In twos and threes, they have not far to roam, Crowds that thread eastward, gay of eyes; Those seek no further than their quiet home, Wives, walking westward, slow and wise.
Neither should I go fooling over clouds, Following gleams unsafe, untrue, And tiring after beauty through star-crowds, Dared I go side by side with you;
Or be you in the gutter where you stand, Pale rain-flawed phantom of the place, With news of all the nations in your hand, And all their sorrows in your face.