It is spring, moonless night in the

It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched,courters'-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboatbobbing sea.The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine to-night in the snouting, velvet dingles)or blind as Captain Catthere in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock,the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows' weeds.And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town aresleeping now.