Six o'clock

Six o’clock

 

One thinks of all the hands That are raising dingy shades In a thousand furnished rooms.

One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.

The burnt-out ends of smoky days.

The burnt-out ends of smoky days.

You dozed, and watched the night revealing The thousand sordid images Of which your soul was constituted; They flickered against the ceiling.

You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.

 

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