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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408763" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Alleys</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I was welcome in a palace when the ball was at my feet,<br>I was petted in a garden and my triumph was complete.<br>But for me above the alleys there forever shone a star,<br>Where the third-rate public houses and the dens of Venus are.<br>Where the third-rate public houses<br>And the fourth-rate lodging houses,<br>And the rag-shops and the pawn-shops and the dens of Venus are. <br>I was born among the alleys, bred in darkness and in doubt,<br>And I wrote the truth in blindness and I struggled up and out;<br>And the world was fair before me and the way was wide and plain,<br>But the spirit of the alleys ever dragged me back again.<br>’Tis a madness I inherit<br>And a blind and reckless spirit.<br>Oh! the spirit of the alleys ever drags me down again! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">There were fair girls in the garden where the spring came in a day,<br>But the barmaids in the alleys know a wider world than they.<br>There were wise men in the palace who were born to rule the earth,<br>But the wrecks amongst the alleys know the world for what it’s worth.<br>To the pewter from the chalice,<br>To the slum from the palace,<br>Aye! the wrecks sunk in the alleys know the world for what it’s worth! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Poets who have done with puzzling—men who talk but dare not think—<br>Men who might have moulded nations had it not been for the drink!<br>Wicked stories full of humour—shafts of wit that seldom miss,<br>Shot from blighted lips of women that the bravest dare not kiss?<br>Let the worst girl lead the revels<br>Of the reckless alley devils!—<br>Pure and virtuous women often, often drive men down to this. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the days of mental torture when my life was all a hell,<br>It was down amongst the alleys that I learnt the tales I tell,<br>From the black-sheep out from England, from the boozer in from Bourke,<br>From the tired haggard women bending over needle-work:<br>Tales of wrongs, that fire the spirit,<br>Tales of more than human merit,<br>Told in quiet tones and measured, bending over needle-work. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh! the pathos and the humour of the shifts of poverty,<br>Oh! the sympathy of drunkards, wit and truth and charity,<br>Oh! the worn-out working women and the lives that they endure,<br>And the hard and callous kindness of the poor unto the poor!<br>(Where they blame not—those who labour—<br>And the prostitute’s a neighbour)<br>Ah! the humour and the courage and the kindness of the poor! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">There is fire down in the alleys that has smouldered very long;<br>There is hatred in the alleys born of centuries of wrong;<br>And no prayer wins to heaven like a prayer from the slums,<br>And the thrones of empire totter when the alleys beat their drums.<br>(Ah! the world is very rotten!<br>But my sins shall be forgotten<br>And my work shall be remembered when the alleys beat their drums.) </div><div style="margin:10px 0">It is down amongst the alleys, in the alleys dull and damp,<br>They find kindness in a scoundrel, they find good points in a scamp.<br>It is down amongst the alleys, now my star has ceased to shine,<br>I find sympathy with sinners and can hide what shame is mine,<br>For we trust and shield each other<br>And a sinner is a brother—<br>There are souls amongst the alleys who were lost the same as mine. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And if you should some day miss me, and should care to wonder why,<br>Ask for me amongst the alleys by the name they knew me by:<br>Mind your head and pick your footsteps for you’ll grope in alley gloom,<br>And the stairs are steep and narrow where they’ll lead you to a room.<br>What if floors are foul and dusty<br>And the air is close and musty?<br>In the days when I was noble then I wrote in such a room. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You will see a chair and table dimly shown by candle light,<br>And the pen I dropped for ever from the last line I shall write;<br>And some poor attempts at comfort, and a bottle—and maybe<br>You will find a bad girl crying over what is left of me:<br>Call no friends—I shall not need them;<br>Call no priests—I shall not heed them—<br>Let the bad girl do the praying over what is left of me.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Lawson">Henry Lawson</a><div class=q>
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I was petted in a garden and my triumph was complete.
But for me above the alleys there forever shone a star,
Where the third-rate public houses and the dens of Venus are.
Where the third-rat..."></div>
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