 | [Poems by Piatt in] Poems of two friends |  |
32
THE FORGOTTEN STREET.
Through Midnight's holy hush, with hushing feet,
Seeming to hear the sleeping heart-beat plain,
I wandered slow through the forgotten street,
Toil's weary tread-mill—Traffic's noisy brain—
Where flashed the wheels—the busy dust was blown—
Where all went masked—Life lost his brother Death—
Where sat the God Gold on his golden throne
Last noon, last eve—and through the crowded breath,
Mocking the Babel, crept the funerals through;
Lo! all the dust lies down in heaven's dew!
Seeming to hear the sleeping heart-beat plain,
I wandered slow through the forgotten street,
Toil's weary tread-mill—Traffic's noisy brain—
Where flashed the wheels—the busy dust was blown—
Where all went masked—Life lost his brother Death—
Where sat the God Gold on his golden throne
Last noon, last eve—and through the crowded breath,
Mocking the Babel, crept the funerals through;
Lo! all the dust lies down in heaven's dew!
The holy Crown of every weary Day—
The Night—the Rest, the Sleep, the Dream—is here;
The star-light glitters, the pure dew-winds play,
Where swarmed the myriad feet—the smile, the tea—
The bride's rose-wreath of joy-lit girls—the train
Funereal, hushing through the singing hours—
The waking-dream of Life and Death. Again
The seeds of Sleep sow all the dark with flowers,
Blooming in some returning Paradise:
The World, a Child, pulls them with loving eyes!
The Night—the Rest, the Sleep, the Dream—is here;
The star-light glitters, the pure dew-winds play,
Where swarmed the myriad feet—the smile, the tea—
The bride's rose-wreath of joy-lit girls—the train
Funereal, hushing through the singing hours—
The waking-dream of Life and Death. Again
The seeds of Sleep sow all the dark with flowers,
Blooming in some returning Paradise:
The World, a Child, pulls them with loving eyes!
33
Where are they vanished? Here an hour ago!
The hiving purposes that hum no more?
Napoleon-wills that made the Alps seem low?
To Dream-land!—what far sunrise finds that shore?
To that New World—who but Columbus knows?
Where are the homeless exiles? Gone to dreams!
To the green lands the love of Heaven blows;
Laugh in their eyes green England's village-gleams;
The German all-forgets he left the Rhine—
Sings in the Past—the golden hills of wine!
The hiving purposes that hum no more?
Napoleon-wills that made the Alps seem low?
To Dream-land!—what far sunrise finds that shore?
To that New World—who but Columbus knows?
Where are the homeless exiles? Gone to dreams!
To the green lands the love of Heaven blows;
Laugh in their eyes green England's village-gleams;
The German all-forgets he left the Rhine—
Sings in the Past—the golden hills of wine!
Hope, bee-like, cradled in the morrow-rose,
Dreams on the dead, cold bosom of To-day,
Despair, at Morning's threshold, finds repose—
Wearing the face of Hope and heart of May;
The young, the old—rich, poor—the evil, good—
Take God's rich alms alike in blinded eyes
To beggar-hearts—sweet sleep!—in gratitude;
The Eve with Adam still in Eden lies;
The fallen from the heaven of human love,
Rise from the scornful flame—singing above!
Dreams on the dead, cold bosom of To-day,
Despair, at Morning's threshold, finds repose—
Wearing the face of Hope and heart of May;
The young, the old—rich, poor—the evil, good—
Take God's rich alms alike in blinded eyes
To beggar-hearts—sweet sleep!—in gratitude;
The Eve with Adam still in Eden lies;
The fallen from the heaven of human love,
Rise from the scornful flame—singing above!
Where yonder vine-top, in the moonshine gleams,
To some bright breeze's fingering, sleeps a girl—
Clasping the white dove of her bosom, dreams;
The silver moonlight clasps the golden curl,
And the leaf's shadow plays o'er her pure eyes.
She sleeps—she dreams the morn to wake her joy!
The dream is there. The gate of Paradise
(Those angels have forgot their old employ),
To-morrow opes. To-morrow clasps to-day;
The lark sings up into her heaven of May!
To some bright breeze's fingering, sleeps a girl—
Clasping the white dove of her bosom, dreams;
The silver moonlight clasps the golden curl,
And the leaf's shadow plays o'er her pure eyes.
34
The dream is there. The gate of Paradise
(Those angels have forgot their old employ),
To-morrow opes. To-morrow clasps to-day;
The lark sings up into her heaven of May!
There haunts a prison. White, pure, holy stars!
Through all the dark, reach ye the darkness there?
Rains your sweet influence through the ghastly bars—
The grated soul? Sleep opes the prison-air!
God's sweetest human angel, loving all,
Kisses the lips and hovers happy wings;
A child sings forth from some rose-clasping hall,
Dancing his song into all loving things!
And who is she that keeps his hand?—the gleam
Losing his dark! That angel leaves his dream!
Through all the dark, reach ye the darkness there?
Rains your sweet influence through the ghastly bars—
The grated soul? Sleep opes the prison-air!
God's sweetest human angel, loving all,
Kisses the lips and hovers happy wings;
A child sings forth from some rose-clasping hall,
Dancing his song into all loving things!
And who is she that keeps his hand?—the gleam
Losing his dark! That angel leaves his dream!
Pleasure lies in the rose's heart asleep,
And sorrow falls asleep in Pleasure's arms;
The mighty torrent, Life, seems slumbering deep
Over the precipice. Time's hive no more swarms
In the charmed palace of the Soul's distress;
All dream their dream, and wait the morrow's kiss
To sing the sunshine from their happiness,
And give the trees, the flowers, the clouds their bliss
The Ixion-world wakes in To-morrow's ray,
Turning the ever-turning wheel To-day!
And sorrow falls asleep in Pleasure's arms;
The mighty torrent, Life, seems slumbering deep
Over the precipice. Time's hive no more swarms
In the charmed palace of the Soul's distress;
All dream their dream, and wait the morrow's kiss
To sing the sunshine from their happiness,
And give the trees, the flowers, the clouds their bliss
The Ixion-world wakes in To-morrow's ray,
Turning the ever-turning wheel To-day!
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