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Poem	Here was a man who watched the river flow Past the huge town, one gray November day. Round him in narrow high-piled streets at play The boys made merry as they saw him go, Murmuring half-loud, with eyes upon the stream, The immortal screed he held within his hand. For he was walking in an April land With Faust and Helen. Shadowy as a dream Was the prose-world, the river and the town. Wild joy possessed him; through enchanted skies He saw the cranes of Ibycus swoop down. He closed the page, he lifted up his eyes, Lo--a black line of birds in wavering thread Bore him the greetings of the deathless dead!
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