But I have seen the old Courthouse. I have seen The flyspecked windows and the faded flag Over the judge’s chair, touched the scuffed walls, Spat in the monumental brass spittoons And smelt the smell that never could be aired, Although one opened windows for a year, The unforgettable, intangible Mixture of cheap cigars, worm-eaten books, Sweat, poverty, negro hair-oil, grief and law. I have seen the long room packed with quiet men, Fit to turn mob, if need were, in a flash⁠— Cocked-pistol men, so lazily attentive Their easy languor knocked against your ribs As, hour by hour, the lawyers droned along, And minute on creeping minute, your cold necknape Waited the bursting of the firecracker, The flare of fury. And yet, that composed fury Burnt itself out, unflaring⁠—was held down By a dry, droning voice, a faded flag. The kettle never boiled, the pistol stayed At cock but the snake-head hammer never fell.⁠ ⁠… The little boys climbed down beyond the windows.⁠ ⁠…