Walking the streets of the city, sitting in a bar.
Sometimes I take delight in the things I see;
Sometimes I hardly notice what things are:
They are the same—delight delight depends on me.

Today the tram’s lurch and slide, footsteps,
The noise of birds are all clear and dear to me.
My hand at rest on the heavy, shining wood
Of the bar counter seems good, and the amber pint
And the floor and the faces and shapes of men
And sunlight falling there, and the taste of beer
And the feel of smoke in my lungs, and small things—
Shreds of tobacco and pieces of orange peel—
Are all lovely, and I see them clearly—
Perhaps that’s all things need. I feel
My stump of pencil is worn down with poems
And I am being worn and shaped by the rubbing of life
As a shell is by the sea—as sensibly.