Is  it  you  I  see  go  by  the  window,  Jim  Larkin  —  you  not 

looking  at  me  nor  any  one, 
And  your  shadow  swaying  from  East  to  West? 
Strange  that  you  should  be  walking  free  —  you  shut  down 

without  light, 
And  your  legs  tied  up  with  a  knot  of  iron. 

One  hundred  million  men  and  women  go  inevitably  about 

their  affairs, 
In  the  somnolent  way 
Of  men  before  a  great  drunkenness.  .  .  . 
They  do  not  see  you  go  by  their  windows,  Jim  Larkin, 
With  your  eyes  bloody  as  the  sunset 
And  your  shadow  gaunt  upon  the  sky  .  .  . 
You,  and  the  like  of  you,  that  life 
Is  crushing  for  their  frantic  wines.