narrative poetry

doubtless i remember still
through the broad earth's aching breast
i am fevered
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
two rows of cabbages
when the veil from the eyes is lifted
the shadows of the ships
full of tears
little gate was reached at last
night is dark, and the winter winds
when i was broke in london
when, full of warm and eager love
it was the autumn of the year