The pavement ringing under my heels is hard
As bell-metal; and the houses on the street
Stare at the passer-by from their retreat
Of steel: this is the sanctity they guard,
This grim domestic fortress, double-barred,
Where only the anointed and elite
May purr and agitate on papal feet
And your admission flutters in a card.

What are these walls that cut into the sun,
Scissor the sky in little cubes and squares,
Rhomboids and arcs beyond which no blue dares
Penetrate and no casual radiance run? …
Dawn, crash into this plaything with your hoof
And send white daylight roaring through the roof!