By Wallace Stevens
The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dreams of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches Tigers
In red weather.