So, in the cupolaed Courthouse there in Charlestown, When the jail-guards had carried in the cot Where Brown lay like a hawk with a broken back, I hear the rustle of the moving crowd, The buzz outside, taste the dull, heavy air, Smell the stale smell and see the country carts Hitched in the streets. For a long, dragging week Of market-Saturdays the trial went on. The droning voices rise and fall and rise. Stevens lies quiet on his mattress, breathing The harsh and difficult breath of a dying man, Although not dying then. Beyond the Square The trees are dry, but all the dry leaves not fallen⁠— Yellow leaves falling through a grey-blue dusk, The first winds of November whirl and scatter them.⁠ ⁠…