A late snow beats br With cold white fists upon the tenements - br Hurriedly drawing blinds and shutters, br Like tall old slatterns br Pulling aprons about their heads. br br Lights slanting out of Mott Street br Gibber out, br Or dribble through bar-room slits, br Anonymous shapes br Conniving behind shuttered panes br Caper and disappear… br Where the Bowery br Is throbbing like a fistula br Back of her ice-scabbed fronts. br br Livid faces br Glimmer in furtive doorways, br Or spill out of the black pockets of alleys, br Smears of faces like muddied beads, br Making a ghastly rosary br The night mumbles over br And the snow with its devilish and silken whisper… br Patrolling arcs br Blowing shrill blasts over the Bread Line br Stalk them as they pass, br Silent as though accouched of the darkness, br And the wind noses among them, br Like a skunk br That roots about the heart… br br Colder: br And the Elevated slams upon the silence br Like a ponderous door. br Then all is still again, br Save for the wind fumbling over br The emptily swaying faces - br The wind rummaging br Like an old Jew… br br Faces in glimmering rows… br (No sign of the abject life - br Not even a blasphemy…) br But the spindle legs keep time br To a limping rhythm, br And the shadows twitch upon the snow br Convulsively - br As though death played br With some ungainly dolls.