Often, to return to my house
I take a dark street in the old city.
Yellow is reflected in some puddle
a few lights, and the street is crowded.
Here among the people who come and go
from the inn to the house or brothel,
where the debris is goods and men
of a large sea port,
I find, passing, the infinite
in humility.
Here prostitute and sailor, the old man
who blasphemes, the female who quarrels,
the dragon who sits at the shop
of the fryer,
the tumultuous crazed young woman
love,
they are all creatures of life
and pain;
the Lord stirs in them, as in me.
Here the humble feel in company
my thoughts get
purer where the way is fouler.

(U.S.)