The roofs of the city are a bleak mist Brooding over the sharpness beneath them: Walls stroked to corners by the hands of the cold women, Fireplaces for irony. We shall not wonder at rimed mirrors— Windows give up their secrets, Not mirrors. In the houses of the city of cold women There are shadows. They may be children, They titillate the light so bashfully. There are tired lilies, propped to apathy.