noon
Please let me hear something you 've written ! '' He pondered a moment , then in his well-modulated , deep-toned voice began : _ HESPERIDES _ . My feet , used to pine-needles , moss and turf , And the gray boulders at the lip o ' the sea , Where the cold brine jets up its creamy surf , Now tread once more these city ways , unloved by me , Hateful and hot , gross with iniquity . And so I grieve , Grieve when I wake , or at high blinding noon Or when the moon Mocks this sad Ninevah where the throngs weave Their jostling ways by day , their paths by night ; Where darkness is not -- where the streets burn bright With hectic fevers , eloquent of death ! I gasp for breath ... . Visions have I , visions ! So sweet they seem That from this welter of men and things I turn , to dream Of the dim Wood-world , calling out to me .