I held the book beneath my coat,
at pains
To hide the thing from sight in such a place;
Hurrying through the ancient harbor lanes
With often-turning head
and nervous pace. 
Dull, furtive windows
in old tottering brick
Peered at me oddly
as I hastened by,
And thinking what they sheltered,
I grew sick for a redeeming glimpse
of clean blue sky. 
No one
had seen me take the thing
but still
A blank laugh
echoed in my whirling head,
And I could guess
what nighted worlds of ill
Lurked in that volume
I had coveted. 
The way grew strange
the walls alike and madding
And far
behind me,
unseen feet
were padding.