 | Poems |  |
26
THE GUTTER—A CITY IDYL.
You are welcome, dusky cloud,
With your bosom swelling;
And your tears—their patter cheers
All my dusty dwelling:
With your bosom swelling;
And your tears—their patter cheers
All my dusty dwelling:
And the gutter sudden wakes
In a thousand voices;
O, the song that rings along
Where the rill rejoices!
In a thousand voices;
O, the song that rings along
Where the rill rejoices!
I am happy for the sight,
Joining your carouses,
Brook and I go laughing by
All the dripping houses.
Joining your carouses,
Brook and I go laughing by
All the dripping houses.
You'll excuse us for the noise,
And our haste and flurry?
We must fly, for soon we die,
That is why we hurry.
And our haste and flurry?
We must fly, for soon we die,
That is why we hurry.
27
I am here because I like
Just this sort of weather;
Brook takes me for company—
Down we go together.
Just this sort of weather;
Brook takes me for company—
Down we go together.
Ha! this life's a merry one,
Though a thoughtless scorner
Cries, “The tomb is full of gloom,
Down upon the corner.”
Though a thoughtless scorner
Cries, “The tomb is full of gloom,
Down upon the corner.”
What if all its life is brief—
Born of such a shower—
Running through a block or two,
Dying in an hour?
Born of such a shower—
Running through a block or two,
Dying in an hour?
There is something still beyond—
Death is nothing surer—
Brook will flow, and ever grow
Softer, sweeter, purer,
Death is nothing surer—
Brook will flow, and ever grow
Softer, sweeter, purer,
Till the sun doth draw it hence,
T'wards its quenchless taper;
It will rise into the skies
As a silver vapor.
T'wards its quenchless taper;
It will rise into the skies
As a silver vapor.
28
As it floateth in the air—
Merciful its slumber—
Then again is born the rain
Of that cloud of umber.
Merciful its slumber—
Then again is born the rain
Of that cloud of umber.
But the brook is growing still—
Is the rain abating!
In a breath will sudden death
Take it at the grating.
Is the rain abating!
In a breath will sudden death
Take it at the grating.
You would hardly know it now
For its faintest mutter—
A shriveled tongue that laps among
The cobbles in the gutter.
For its faintest mutter—
A shriveled tongue that laps among
The cobbles in the gutter.
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