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 | Drifted in |  |
So, still through the waning hours we sped:
The day slow dying would soon be dead,
And all things dimmed to the failing sight,
As light crept into the arms of night.
How common and yet how queer a phase
Of twentieth century nights and days—
Inherited from the toil and strain
Of nineteenth century heart and brain!
Now full of people of varied worth,
Rush villages up and down the earth;
Each one with its one long swaying street,
On which the tribes of the nations meet.
This roving hamlet, where boor and belle
And pauper and prince in peace may dwell,
With real and imagined joys and ills,
Is nestled in valleys and perched on hills;
Townships an hundred our village may hold,
Ere even a winter's day is old—
It adds to many a city's numbers,
Ere yet its shifting populace slumbers.
At which—as you oft have been advised—
Your ancestors would have been surprised.
The day slow dying would soon be dead,
And all things dimmed to the failing sight,
As light crept into the arms of night.
How common and yet how queer a phase
Of twentieth century nights and days—
Inherited from the toil and strain
Of nineteenth century heart and brain!
Now full of people of varied worth,
Rush villages up and down the earth;
Each one with its one long swaying street,
On which the tribes of the nations meet.
This roving hamlet, where boor and belle
And pauper and prince in peace may dwell,
With real and imagined joys and ills,
Is nestled in valleys and perched on hills;
Townships an hundred our village may hold,
Ere even a winter's day is old—
It adds to many a city's numbers,
Ere yet its shifting populace slumbers.
At which—as you oft have been advised—
Your ancestors would have been surprised.
| Drifted in | |