The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.
* * *
Tim cracking his head over the foreword.
At last, it is finished—well, the first draft anyway. Some editing will be required, but at least it's out!
Zest is practically now our 'official' café.