The House Of Dust: Part 01: 02: One, From His High Bright Window In A Tower

One, from his high bright window in a tower,     Leans out, as evening falls,     And sees the advancing curtain of the shower     Splashing its silver on roofs and walls:     Sees how, swift as a shadow, it crosses the city,     And murmurs beyond far walls to the sea,     Leaving a glimmer of water in the dark canyons,     And silver falling from eave and tree.     One, from his high bright window, looking down,     Peers like a dreamer over the rain-bright town,     And thinks its towers are like a dream.     The western windows flame in the suns last flare,     Pale roofs begin to gleam.     Looking down from a window high in a wall     He sees us all;     Lifting our pallid faces towards the rain,     Searching the sky, and going our ways again,     Standing in doorways, waiting under the trees . . .     There, in the high bright window he dreams, and sees     What we are blind to, we who mass and crowd     From wall to wall in the darkening of a cloud.     The gulls drift slowly above the city of towers,     Over the roofs to the darkening sea they fly;     Night falls swiftly on an evening of rain.     The yellow lamps wink one by one again.     The towers reach higher and blacker against the sky.