what's o'clock
11
Minerva have a care of him,
For surely he has none for himself.
His eyes are dim with the plague of print,
But he believes them eagle-seeing.
His spectacles have grown to his nose,
But he is unaware of the fact since he never takes them off.
A little black cap on his head;
A rusty dressing-gown, with the quilts run together,
To keep out the cold;
A window out of which he never looks;
A chair from which he never rises.
But do you not know a wharf-side when you see it,
And are you not moved at watching the putting off of the caravels of dream?
Food gets into his mouth by accident
As though fish swam the seas to come there,
And cattle crowded the thoroughfares to reach his lips.
If there are intermediaries, he is unconscious of them,
For surely he has none for himself.
His eyes are dim with the plague of print,
But he believes them eagle-seeing.
His spectacles have grown to his nose,
But he is unaware of the fact since he never takes them off.
A little black cap on his head;
A rusty dressing-gown, with the quilts run together,
To keep out the cold;
A window out of which he never looks;
A chair from which he never rises.
But do you not know a wharf-side when you see it,
And are you not moved at watching the putting off of the caravels of dream?
Food gets into his mouth by accident
As though fish swam the seas to come there,
And cattle crowded the thoroughfares to reach his lips.
If there are intermediaries, he is unconscious of them,
