Clerk's Song
After the office hours chime away
And hurrying souls drift homeward, one by one
The long shadows that follow the dead sun
Wake, and become coherent, just as a
Sequence of words is strung into a lay;
Their cool blue fingers recreate my thought,
They slant in curious shapes across the bricks
A cube, a hippogriff, a crucifix,
A grape cluster that drips its crimson draught
Of Anaesthesia, as I have long sought.
[ . . . ]
Sherard Vines' poem "Clerk's Song" was published in the 1918 "cycle" of the Wheels anthology. To read this poem in full in a digitized version of this publication, follow the links below: