I held the book beneath my coat, at pains

To hide the thing from sight in such a place;

Hurrying through the ancient harbour lanes

With often-turning head and nervous pace.

Dull, furtive windows in old tottering brick

Peered at me oddly as I hastened by,

And thinking what they sheltered, I grew sick

For a redeeming glimpse of clean blue sky.

No one had seen me take the thing – but still

A blank laugh echoed in my whirling head,

And I could guess what nighted worlds of ill

Lurked in that volume I had coveted.

The way grew strange – the walls alike and madding —

And far behind me, unseen feet were padding.