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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408369" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>On a Street</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I dread that street - its haggard face<br>I have not seen for eight long years;<br>A mother's curse is on the place,<br>(There's blood, my reader, in her tears).<br>No child of man shall ever track,<br>Through filthy dust, the singer's feet -<br>A fierce old memory drags me back;<br>I hate its name - I dread that street.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Upon the lap of green, sweet lands,<br>Whose months are like your English Mays,<br>I try to hide in Lethe's sands<br>The bitter, old Bohemian days.<br>But sorrow speaks in singing leaf,<br>And trouble talketh in the tide;<br>The skirts of a stupendous grief<br>Are trailing ever at my side.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I will not say who suffered there,<br>'Tis best the name aloof to keep,<br>Because the world is very fair -<br>Its light should sing the dark to sleep.<br>But, let me whisper, in that street<br>A woman, faint through want of bread,<br>Has often pawned the quilt and sheet<br>And wept upon a barren bed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">How gladly would I change my theme,<br>Or cease the song and steal away,<br>But on the hill and by the stream<br>A ghost is with me night and day!<br>A dreadful darkness, full of wild,<br>Chaotic visions, comes to me:<br>I seem to hear a dying child,<br>Its mother's face I seem to see.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here, surely, on this bank of bloom,<br>My verse with shine would ever flow;<br>But ah! it comes - the rented room,<br>With man and wife who suffered so!<br>From flower and leaf there is no hint -<br>I only see a sharp distress -<br>A lady in a faded print,<br>A careworn writer for the press.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I only hear the brutal curse<br>Of landlord clamouring for his pay;<br>And yonder is the pauper's hearse<br>That comes to take a child away.<br>Apart, and with the half-grey head<br>Of sudden age, again I see<br>The father writing by the dead<br>To earn the undertaker's fee.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No tear at all is asked for him -<br>A drunkard well deserves his life;<br>But voice will quiver, eyes grow dim,<br>For her, the patient, pure young wife,<br>The gentle girl of better days,<br>As timid as a mountain fawn,<br>Who used to choose untrodden ways,<br>And place at night her rags in pawn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She could not face the lighted square,<br>Or show the street her poor, thin dress;<br>In one close chamber, bleak and bare,<br>She hid her burden of distress.<br>Her happy schoolmates used to drive,<br>On gaudy wheels, the town about;<br>The meat that keeps a dog alive<br>She often had to go without.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I tell you, this is not a tale<br>Conceived by me, but bitter truth;<br>Bohemia knows it, pinched and pale,<br>Beside the pyre of burnt-out youth:<br>These eyes of mine have often seen<br>The sweet girl-wife, in winters rude,<br>Steal out at night, through courts unclean,<br>To hunt about for chips of wood.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Have I no word at all for him<br>Who used down fetid lanes to slink,<br>And squat in tap-room corners grim,<br>And drown his thoughts in dregs of drink?<br>This much I'll say, that when the flame<br>Of reason reassumed its force,<br>The hell the Christian fears to name,<br>Was heaven to his fierce remorse.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Just think of him - beneath the ban,<br>And steeped in sorrow to the neck,<br>Without a friend - a feeble man,<br>In failing health - a human wreck.<br>With all his sense and scholarship,<br>How could he face his fading wife?<br>The devil never lifted whip<br>With thongs like those that scourged his life.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But He in whom the dying thief<br>Upon the Cross did place his trust,<br>Forgets the sin and feels the grief,<br>And lifts the sufferer from the dust.<br>And now, because I have a dream,<br>The man and woman found the light;<br>A glory burns upon the stream,<br>With gold and green the woods are bright.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But still I hate that haggard street,<br>Its filthy courts, its alleys wild;<br>In dreams of it I always meet<br>The phantom of a wailing child.<br>The name of it begets distress -<br>Ah, song, be silent! show no more<br>The lady in the perished dress,<br>The scholar on the tap-room floor.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Kendall">Henry Kendall</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408369" data-title="On a Street de Henry Kendall" data-description="I dread that street - its haggard face
I have not seen for eight long years;
A mother's curse is on the place,
(There's blood, my reader, in her tears).
No child of man shall ever track,
Through filthy dust, the singer's feet -
A fierce old memory..."></div>
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