No prayers or incense rose up in those hoursWhich grew to be years, and every day came muteGhosts from the ovens, sifting through crisp air,And settled upon his eyes in a black soot. The Hard Hours (1967)
To have been broughtAll the way down from London, and then be addressedAs a sort of mournful cosmic last resortIs really tough on a girl, and she was pretty. The Hard Hours (1967)
She got to looking outAt the lights across the channel, and really felt sad,Thinking of all the wine and enormous bedsAnd blandishments in French and the perfumes. The Hard Hours (1967)