by T. S. Eliot
III

IV

 His soul stretched tight across the skies That fade behind a city block, Or trampled by insistent feet At four and five and six o'clock; And short square fingers stuffing pipes, And evening newspapers, and eyes Assured of certain certainties, The conscience of a blackened street Impatient to assume the world. 
 I am moved by fancies that are curled Around these images, and cling: The notion of some infinitely gentle Infinitely suffering thing. 
 Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh; The worlds revolve like ancient women Gathering fuel in vacant lots.