noon
In one foreign street , too deeply trenched for sunlight , oranges were the only gold . The water , reaching round in two arms , came close : there was a note of husky summons in the whistles of passing craft . Almost everywhere , sharp above many smells of oils and spices , the whiff of coffee tingled his busy nose . Above one huge precipice stood a gilded statue -- a boy with wings , burning in the noon . Brilliance flamed between the vanes of his pinions : the intangible thrust of that pouring light seemed about to hover him off into blue air . The world of working husbands was more tender than that of shopping wives : even in all their business , they had left space and quietness for the dead . Sunken among the crags he found two graveyards .