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Amy Lowell - J--K. Huysmans
Work rating: Low

A flickering glimmer through a window-pane, 
A dim red glare through mud bespattered glass, 
Cleaving a path between blown walls of sleet 
Across uneven pavements sunk in slime 
To scatter and then quench itself in mist. 
And struggling, slipping, often rudely hurled 
Against the jutting angle of a wall, 
And cursed, and reeled against, and flung aside 
By drunken brawlers as they shuffled past, 
A man was groping to what seemed a light. 
His eyelids burnt and quivered with the strain 
Of looking, and against his temples beat 
The all enshrouding, suffocating dark. 
He stumbled, lurched, and struck against a door 
That opened, and a howl of obscene mirth 
Grated his senses, wallowing on the floor 
Lay men, and dogs and women in the dirt. 
He sickened, loathing it, and as he gazed 
The candle guttered, flared, and then went out. 

Through travail of ignoble midnight streets 
He came at last to shelter in a porch 
Where gothic saints and warriors made a shield 
To cover him, and tortured gargoyles spat 
One long continuous stream of silver rain 
That clattered down from myriad roofs and spires 
Into a darkness, loud with rushing sound 
Of water falling, gurgling as it fell, 
But always thickly dark. Then as he leaned 
Unconscious where, the great oak door blew back 
And cast him, bruised and dripping, in the church. 
His eyes from long sojourning in the night 
Were blinded now as by some glorious sun; 
He slowly crawled toward the altar steps. 
He could not think, for heavy in his ears 
An organ boomed majestic harmonies; 
He only knew that what he saw was light! 
He bowed himself before a cross of flame 
And shut his eyes in fear lest it should fade.
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