On to the grey and gaping floor, and through
The broken window in the rough white wall,
In long beams of moted radiance
Falls light ; across the piled disordered bench.
On to the yellow-handled tools, along
Edges of steel that glitter and turn dull
As they rise and fall ; on to the wheelwright's face,
Lighting the lolds about his smiling lips.
Catching the rim of his glasses, making silver
The wisps of hair about his throat and cheeks;
Kissing the old and busy hands, caressing
The freckles and raised veins and broken nails;
Throwing bright patches on his well-worn coat.
Nestling among curled shavings at his feet.
Playing its golden games with dust and cobwebs,
Pots of colour, and litter of wheels and cans.
Andnew-sawnwood, andtravel-shatteredremnants.

Behind the sunlight a huge shadow creeps
Among the dim-seen rafters, covering
The further wall in darkness, muffling up
The dull lines of a broken hearse, that peers
Like a black monster from a cave of dreams.
Waiting its hour. Ugly and grim it is
And full of menace, and the shadow wraps it
In cold terror ;—but 'neath the cobwebbed panes
Of his small and broken window, the old man smiles
To feel the sun warm on his skinny arms.
And the soft creases of his puckered mouth.