“Clerk’s Song” by Sherard Vines

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 theĀ WheelsĀ anthology. To read this poem in full in a digitized version of this publication, follow the links below:


The Modernist Journals Project