I see them swaying their strange heads like geese,
nineteen camels in a string like geese in flight;
as if approaching a problem, or in quest
but baffled a little, a little unsure of their right.

But I am glad their supercilious look
sees as I see the powdery town, the tall
activity of streets, the buttoned-up faces,
the cars like secret agents, the want of it all.

Gentle and sure as pianists' hands, their feet
deliberating on the stone press out
in rhythms that have nothing to do with us
the coins of their aloofness in scorn or doubt.

The motion of the blind or the very proud:
they could be blind; but where their masked eyes fall
they have the sailor's distant and innocent gaze
for where this ends, for the limit and want of it all.