Fourth Caprice In Montparnasse

By T. S. Eliot

We turn the corner of the street
And again
Here is a landscape grey with rain
On black umbrellas, waterproofs,
And dashing from the slated roofs
Into a mass of mud and sand.
Behind a row of blackened trees.
The dripping plastered houses stand
Like mendicants without regrets
For unpaid debts
Hand in pocket, undecided,
Indifferent if derided.

Among such scattered thoughts as these
We turn the corner of the street;
But why are we so hard to please?

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