“For each district of the treasure-town, A Roman rune written, raised high For each lane lying below it, An Arabic number to know it. “South face the glass gates; the fat fool Northward led me, shouldering them aside Greeting a guard, vested in blue, Scarcely strength to stand had that old ogre. “To our right, ranks of clashing carts Waiting to be wheeled and weighed down By Fatlanders too frail for fardels. Sight-seers only, we spurned these. “Till-keepers’ tables cluttered our view. Beyond them, still north-questing, Kiosks and cairns covered the place, Towers of trifles.
