San Francisco Night Windows

　　by Robert Penn Warren

　　 So hangs the hour like fruit fullblown and sweet，

　　 Our strict and desperate avatar，

　　 Despite that antiquewestward gulls lament

　　 Over enormous waters which retreat

　　 Weary unto the white and sensual star.

　　 Accept these images for what they are--

　　 Out of the past a fragile element

　　 Of substance into accident.

　　 I would speak honestly and of a full heart；

　　 I would speak surely for the tale is short，

　　 And the soul's remorseless catalogue

　　 Assumes its quick and piteous sum.

　　 Think you， hungry is the city in the fog

　　 Where now the darkened piles resume

　　 Their framed and frozen prayer

　　 Articulate and shafted in the stone

　　 Against the void and absolute air.

　　 If so the frantic breath could be forgiven，

　　 And the deep blood subdued before it is gone

　　 In a savage paternoster to the stone，

　　 Then might we all be shriven.

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