Empty Houses
I
THERE’S not a person in the street,
This merry-making summer day!
The houses stand in dull array;
No profit on their doors to beat,
For all their owners are away.
The gardens blossom white and red
All solitary in the sun,
Save where some timid creatures run;
Secure across the lawns to tread,
No human dangers here to shun,—
Since men have gone on holiday;
Have left the still, suburban street
For that wide park, where people meet
In pleasures till the eve is grey.
Oh, but the home-coming is sweet!
II
There’s not a person in the street
Where wandering in grief I go.
These strange small houses, set in row,
Send out no human form to greet,
No busy footfalls to and fro.
Tall poplars raise their shafts beside;
And mingled shades and sunbeams bless
God’s Acre, in its quietness—
God’s town, where men are drawn to bide
Untroubled by the world’s distress.
There comes no opening of the gate,
Though to my friend I plead and pray.
‘Patience!’ the trees and sunbeams say.
‘Here only empty houses wait,
While souls are keeping holiday.’
poem by Mary Colborne-Veel
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Related quotes
Empty Old Houses
Empty Old Houses
Empty old houses can talk…
But one must know how to listen…
to hear them
Empty old houses have stories…
But one must be eager to listen…
to hear them
Empty old houses can suffer..
But one must have empathy …
To feel it
Empty old houses can feel pain
But one must be able to bear it …
To feel it
Empty old houses have memories
But one must believe … that they have…
To share them
Empty old houses contain people’s lives
But one must believe…that they do…
To share them
Empty old houses can seem dead and deserted
But one must know that they’re not..
To know them
Empty old houses can teem with life’s pleasures
But one must walk through
to sense the aura of life
Empty old houses abound in life’s treasures
But one cannot help but…
To admire them
poem by David Whalen
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White Houses
Crashed on the floor when i moved in
This little bungalow with some strange new friends
Stayed up too late, and I'm too thin
We promise each other it's till the end
Now we're spinning empty bottles, it's the fives of us
With pretty-eyed boys girls die to trust
I can't resist the day oh no i can't resist the day
And Jenny screams out and it's no pose
'Cause when she dances she goes and goes
Beer through the nose on an inside joke
And I'm so excited I haven't spoken
And she's so pretty and she's so sure
Maybe I'm more clever than a girl like her
The summer's all in bloom
The summer's ending soon
It's all right
And it's nice not to be so alone
But I hold on to secrets in white houses
Maybe I'm a little bit over my head
I come undone at the things he said
He's so funny in his bright red shirt
we were all in love and we all got hurt
I sneak into his car's cracked leather seat
The smell of gasoline in the summer heat
Boy we're going way too fast
It's all too sweet to last...
It's alright and i put myself in his hands
but i hold on to secrets in White Houses
Love or something ignites in my veins
and i pray it never fades in white houses
My first time
Hard to explain
Rush of blood, oh
And a little bit of pain
On a cloudy day
It's more common than you think
He's my first mistake
Maybe you were all faster than me
We gave each other up so easily
These silly little wounds will never mend
I feel so far from where I've been
So I go and I will not be back here again
I'm gone as the day is fading on white houses
I lie, put my injuries all in the dust
In my heart is the 5 of us in white houses
And you, maybe you'll remember me
What I gave is yours to keep
In white houses
In white houses
In white houses.
song performed by by Vanessa Carlton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Christmas
Hail the coming holiday,
With a hearty joyous feast,
And drive away sorrow, friends,
For a day or two at least;
Lay all business cares aside,
And make the world resound,
With music and festivals
Throughout our merry town.
May every person in our land
A voice to heaven raise,
And welcome in Christ's birthday,
With everlasting praise;
Praise Him who died upon the cross,
Our sinning souls to save,
The great Redeemer, Christ our lord,
That dwells beyond the grave.
We should meet in reverence,
And God's commands obey,
And make each other happy
Throughout the holiday;
And not forget the orphans,
The aged or the blind,
The rich, the poor and needy,
To each one pray be kind.
May every parent in the land,
Hail Christmas day with joy,
And not forget a present for
Their little girls and boys;
They are looking forth anxiously,
For Santa Claus to come
And fill their little stockings,
With toys and sugar-plumbs.
God grant a merry Christmas eve
And happy Christmas day,
To every person in the land,
At home or far away.
That festive day will soon be here,
Alas, will soon be o'er;
Welcome, welcome the coming of
Christmas day once more.
poem by Julia A Moore
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The Destruction Of Magdeburg
OH, Magdeberg the town!
Fair maids thy beauty crown,
Thy charms fair maids and matrons crown;
Oh, Magdeburg the town!
Where all so blooming stands,
Advance fierce Tilly's bands;
O'er gardens and o'er well--till'd lands
Advance fierce Tilly's bands.
Now Tilly's at the gate.
Our homes who'll liberate?
Go, loved one, hasten to the gate,
And dare the combat straight!
There is no need as yet,
However fierce his threat;
Thy rosy cheeks I'll kiss, sweet pet!
There is no need as yet.
My longing makes me pale.
Oh, what can wealth avail?
E'en now thy father may be pale.
Thou mak'st my courage fail.
Oh, mother, give me bread!
Is then my father dead?
Oh, mother, one small crust of bread!
Oh, what misfortune dread!
Thy father, dead lies he,
The trembling townsmen flee,
Adown the street the blood runs free;
Oh, whither shall we flee?
The churches ruined lie,
The houses burn on high,
The roofs they smoke, the flames out fly,
Into the street then hie!
No safety there they meet!
The soldiers fill the Street,
With fire and sword the wreck complete:
No safety there they meet!
Down falls the houses' line,
Where now is thine or mine?
That bundle yonder is not thine,
Thou flying maiden mine!
The women sorrow sore.
The maidens far, far more.
The living are no virgins more;
Thus Tilly's troops make war!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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This Sweet Street
Walking down a street
Happy people I meet
Oh see the colours and smiles
See the sun shining for miles
The houses are small but neat
On this content street
I see the families so close
‘Look at our street’ the people boast
So look and you will see
Even if you are blind to life like me
For I shall tell you what I saw
In that perfect streets outer core
I saw the money passed underhand
I saw people owning stolen land
I saw the children chased off this street
Into the wild just to keep this street petite
I saw the brother’s unclean kill
Just for the money in their cousins will
I saw the father have a secret affair
And the mother, well there is a perfect pair
So see with your own eyes
Don’t always believe possible lies
Don’t be led around blind
Or this world will stab you from behind
poem by Rebecca Pepper
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January, January….
Ice, thick,
as I have never seen
on Cherwell.
Jagged, floating towards Isis.
Low mists of ice-dust
drift on Christ Church meadow
and cool the blood
of long-horn cattle
standing
ankle-deep in mud.
A lame roe deer
beneath the trees
pauses, where
the sudden call of coots
splits the air.
In the gardens of Trinity,
all is order and harmony.
January blossom from Japan,
well-kept paths and lawns.
Controlled
and quiet.
Magdalen is a small, medieval town;
courtyards and golden houses,
a Tower and a Park.
Along Addison’s Walk,
tall trees like sentries,
follow the stream
which sidles out from Magdalen Bridge
to turn and twist
past the Deer Park
with its white deer,
(living, condensations
of the mist) .
poem by Brian Taylor
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Dancin' In The Streets (live)
Hey, comin' out around the world be ready for a brand new beat
Oh, summer's here and the time is right, oh, for dancing in the street
Dancing in Chicago (dancing in the street)
Down in New Orleans (dancing in the street)
In New York City (dancing in the street)
All we need is music, sweet music (sweet, sweet music)
They'll be music everywhere (everywhere)
They'll be laughing, singing, music swinging and dancing in the street
It doesn't matter what you wear just as long as you are there
They're dancing (dancing in the street) oh oh
This is an invitation across the nation the chance for folks to meet
There'll be swinging, swaying, music playing and dancing in the street
Philadelphia, PA now (dancing in the street)
Baltimore and D.C. (dancing in the street)
Can't forget them other cities (dancing in the street
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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William Street
’Tis William Street, the link street,
That seems to stand alone;
’Tis William Street, the vague street,
With terraces of stone:
That starts with clean, cool pockets,
And ancient stable ways,
And built by solid landlords
And in more solid days.
Beginning where the shadow streets
Of vacant wealth begin,
Street William runs down sadly
Across the vale of sin.
’Tis William Street, the haggard,
Where all the streets are mean
That’s trying to be honest,
That’s trying to keep clean.
’Tis William Street with method,
And nought of show or pride,
That tries to keep its business
Upon the right-hand side.
No pavement exhibition
Of carcases and slops;
But old-established principles
In old-established shops.
’Tis William Street the highway—
Whichever way it be—
To business and the theatres,
Or empty luxury.
’Tis William Street (the East-end)—
The world-wise and exempt—
That sells Potts Point its purgatives
With something of contempt.
With fronts that hint of England,
As England used to be,
Old houses once in gardens,
And signs of Italy.
With hints of the forgotten,
Strange Sydney of the past,
When bricks were burnt for all time,
And walls were built to last.
’Tis William Street that rises
From stagnant dust and heat,
(Old trees by the Museum
Hold back with hands and feet)—
And where the blind are plying
Deft fingers, supple wrists—
’Tis William Street, exclusive,
Where pray the Methodists.
The blind courts see the clearer,
Side lanes grow trim and neat,
The wretched streets are cleaner
That run from William Street.
The sick streets’ lonely matron
Seems stern, as matrons do—
’Tis William Street, redeeming,
Regenerating “Loo.”
poem by Henry Lawson
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You Who Say You Do Not Love Nature
You who say that you do not love Nature I wonder about you I do
'Tis sad to think you are not a rare one there are many others like you
You claim that Land for Wildlife should be developed for houses and the old growth trees on them cut down
We are in need of far more houses to add to the size of the town
You do not understand about Nature develop or perish you say
The Greenies you say you do not like of progress they stand in the way
If everybody felt as you do we would have a World without trees
And we would not have any birdsong only pollution blowing in the breeze
We need greenies far more than we need your type the Greenies Nature do defend
And the creatures of Nature in trouble at present they need every friend
With climate change and habitat destruction many species are becoming rare
The World could do with far less of your type and far more of the environmentally aware
You who say you do not love Nature material gains at Nature's expense you pursue
You are an unenlightened person and to your higher self you cannot be true.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Gladness
A person I wanted to be,
A person I have never been,
A person created by thee,
And for Thee she should be,
For the moment I've been happy,
as I saw a forest rising from the desert,
digging the holes of my houses,
from the gheto I've grown,
From the time I was young,
Refused by friends as of my dirtness,
roaming around like a street dog,
today I stand to select them,
Sorrounded by friends reminds me of something,
The time I smelt like a rotten wound,
when I have friends also called flies,
kissing and touching my lips,
Invitation cards takes me far,
to the bottom of a dump site,
with different cards and cakes,
sharing with my friends called Insects,
Am glad I was alive and stable,
having a rest over the tree shadow,
Someone may come and take my shadow,
am glad that I enjoyed it all,
till this moment of fun,
wondering with my imaginative world,
the world exist in my only mind,
and the government is about to come,
to take my remainings away,
my friends will cry for me,
as am heading to my real home,
waiting for you to come,
the home where no one is greater,
same clothes, same home, same bedroom,
and we will be together friend,
Am glad I was a human and mate you.
goodbye.
poem by Dickson Mseti
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White Town
Its midnight down in sector two
Little girl walkin dressed in innocence and cool
Only fourteen and dressed up for the score
Hold that breath now boy, he(? )
She dances, baby, to the beat
Of breaking glass and running feet
Down in white town
Down in white town
Down in white town
Oh, she comes home from work and grabs something to eat
Turn the corner and walks down her street
In a row of houses, chic, shiny and dirty and grey
Disappears like the scenery in another mans play
And as she dances, oh, to the beat
Oh the trooper stickin dresses for the number on the sheet
Down in white town
Down in white town
Down in white town
Down in white town
Yeah, mr. outside, youre walkin so free
If you turn your eyes so you dont see
You act like youre the hand turns the key
And you become the hand that turns the key
And no matter how I try I cannot understand
The way that they will turn a man
Into a stranger in his own land
Down in white town
(repeat to fade)
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Solitude Souls
The blacktop road is shining smooth
Empty trash bins mocking the truth
Grown up trees remain in mute
Golden leaves look so cute
Wind works-out on closed windows
Sky chats with the shut doors
Clouds tease with Concrete groves
Majestic houses on all the floors
Locked inside the concrete walls
Comforts, Cash and zombie hearts?
As far as my eye could see
My street is totally empty!
I search with frenzy
If my shadow is with me..
A distant twilight's mockery
'Solitude Souls live here free
Like those in a cemetry! '
poem by TheBigThinkg Human
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City Of Worcester
Worcester, the city of noise,
Walking along these city streets,
Seeing people busy,
pacing,
Cracked city walks,
Aged city houses,
Beautiful city air, '
Never seems to be a minute to spare,
As cars stream along,
Cops and fire trucks pass down my street.
Loud children playing in the streets.
As I walk down the street of mine,
I hear parents yelling at their children.
Dogs barking as you walk by,
Houses that are old and crusty,
Men and women fighting.
This right here is the city I was born in.
The City Of Worcester!
poem by Cassandra Prew
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Alma Mater
A haunted town thou art to me.
-- Andrew Lang
To-day in Florence all the air
Is soft with spring, with sunlight fair;
In the tall street gay folks are met;
Duomo and Tower gleam overhead,
Like jewels in the city set,
Fair-hued and many-faceted.
Against the old grey stones are piled
February violets, pale and sweet,
Whose scent of earth in woodland wild
Is wafted up and down the street.
The city's heart is glad ; my own
Sits lightly on its bosom's throne.
* * * * * * *
Why is it that I see to-day,
Imaged as clear as in a dream,
A little city far away,
A churlish sky, a sluggish stream,
Tall clust'ring trees and gardens fair,
Dark birds that circle in the air,
Grey towers and fanes ; on either hand,
Stretches of wind-swept meadow-land?
* * * * * * *
Oh, who can sound the human breast?
And this strange truth must be confessed;
That city do I love the best
Wherein my heart was heaviest!
Scenic Route
For Lucy, who called them "ghost houses."
Someone was always leaving
and never coming back.
The wooden houses wait like old wives
along this road; they are everywhere,
abandoned, leaning, turning gray.
Someone always traded
the lonely beauty
of hemlock and stony lakeshore
for survival, packed up his life
and drove off to the city.
In the yards the apple trees
keep hanging on, but the fruit
grows smaller year by year.
When we come this way again
the trees will have gone wild,
the houses collapsed, not even worth
the human act of breaking in.
Fields will have taken over.
What we will recognize
is the wind, the same fierce wind,
which has no history.
poem by Lisel Mueller
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Macleay Street and Red Rock Lane
Macleay Street looks to Mosman,
Across the other side,
With brave asphalted pavements
And roadway clean and wide.
Macleay Street hath its mansions,
Its grounds and greenery;
Macleay Street hath its terraces
As terraces should be.
Red Rock Lane looks to nowhere,
With pockets into hell;
Red Rock Lane is a horror
Of heat and dirt and smell.
Red Rock Lane hath its brothels,
Of houses one in three;
Red Rock Lane hath its corner pubs
As fourth-rate pubs should be.
Macleay Street, cool and quiet,
Is marked off from the town,
And standing in the centre
The tall arc lamps look down.
The jealous closed cabs vanish
That stole from out the row,
Fair women stroll bareheaded,
And theatre parties go.
Red Rock Lane, hot with riot,
Hides things that none should know;
The furtive couples vanish
Through doorways dark and low.
Lust, thievery, drink and madness
In one infernal stew—
And Mrs Johnson, raving,
Walks out—bareheaded too.
Macleay Street hath its swindles,
But on a public scale;
Macleay Street hath its razzles
Until the night grows pale.
Macleay Street hath its scandals,
But—only this is plain,
That nothing is a scandal
Down there in Red Rock Lane.
Macleay Street looks to Mosman
In morning’s rosy glow,
And freshly to the city
The summer-suited go
While wild-eyed, foul and shaking,
Red Rock Lane wakes again.
This morning at the Central
They’re fining Red Rock Lane.
The Central says “the risin’”,
“Seven days”, or what you will;
Macleay Street says, “Drive slowly”
When any one is ill.
The law sends Black Maria
When Red Rock Lane is dead.
But doctors come in motor cars
When Macleay Street’s got a head.
The grey-faced, weedy parents
Sunk in Red Rock Lane holes—
They worry, pinch, and perish
To save their children’s souls.
The fairy of Macleay Street
Shall never soil her hands—
Her Pa is independent,
Or high up in “the Lands”.
And—well, there seems no moral,
And nothing more to tell,
But because of that fierce sympathy
Of souls to souls in hell;
And because of that wild kindness
To souls in sordid pain,
My soul I’d rather venture
With some in Red Rock Lane.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Faces In The Street
They lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone
That want is here a stranger, and that misery's unknown;
For where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet
My window-sill is level with the faces in the street --
Drifting past, drifting past,
To the beat of weary feet --
While I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.
And cause I have to sorrow, in a land so young and fair,
To see upon those faces stamped the marks of Want and Care;
I look in vain for traces of the fresh and fair and sweet
In sallow, sunken faces that are drifting through the street --
Drifting on, drifting on,
To the scrape of restless feet;
I can sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.
In hours before the dawning dims the starlight in the sky
The wan and weary faces first begin to trickle by,
Increasing as the moments hurry on with morning feet,
Till like a pallid river flow the faces in the street --
Flowing in, flowing in,
To the beat of hurried feet --
Ah! I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.
The human river dwindles when 'tis past the hour of eight,
Its waves go flowing faster in the fear of being late;
But slowly drag the moments, whilst beneath the dust and heat
The city grinds the owners of the faces in the street --
Grinding body, grinding soul,
Yielding scarce enough to eat --
Oh! I sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.
And then the only faces till the sun is sinking down
Are those of outside toilers and the idlers of the town,
Save here and there a face that seems a stranger in the street,
Tells of the city's unemployed upon his weary beat --
Drifting round, drifting round,
To the tread of listless feet --
Ah! My heart aches for the owner of that sad face in the street.
And when the hours on lagging feet have slowly dragged away,
And sickly yellow gaslights rise to mock the going day,
Then flowing past my window like a tide in its retreat,
Again I see the pallid stream of faces in the street --
Ebbing out, ebbing out,
To the drag of tired feet,
While my heart is aching dumbly for the faces in the street.
And now all blurred and smirched with vice the day's sad pages end,
For while the short `large hours' toward the longer `small hours' trend,
With smiles that mock the wearer, and with words that half entreat,
Delilah pleads for custom at the corner of the street --
Sinking down, sinking down,
Battered wreck by tempests beat --
A dreadful, thankless trade is hers, that Woman of the Street.
But, ah! to dreader things than these our fair young city comes,
For in its heart are growing thick the filthy dens and slums,
Where human forms shall rot away in sties for swine unmeet,
And ghostly faces shall be seen unfit for any street --
Rotting out, rotting out,
For the lack of air and meat --
In dens of vice and horror that are hidden from the street.
I wonder would the apathy of wealthy men endure
Were all their windows level with the faces of the Poor?
Ah! Mammon's slaves, your knees shall knock, your hearts in terror beat,
When God demands a reason for the sorrows of the street,
The wrong things and the bad things
And the sad things that we meet
In the filthy lane and alley, and the cruel, heartless street.
I left the dreadful corner where the steps are never still,
And sought another window overlooking gorge and hill;
But when the night came dreary with the driving rain and sleet,
They haunted me -- the shadows of those faces in the street,
Flitting by, flitting by,
Flitting by with noiseless feet,
And with cheeks but little paler than the real ones in the street.
Once I cried: `Oh, God Almighty! if Thy might doth still endure,
Now show me in a vision for the wrongs of Earth a cure.'
And, lo! with shops all shuttered I beheld a city's street,
And in the warning distance heard the tramp of many feet,
Coming near, coming near,
To a drum's dull distant beat,
And soon I saw the army that was marching down the street.
Then, like a swollen river that has broken bank and wall,
The human flood came pouring with the red flags over all,
And kindled eyes all blazing bright with revolution's heat,
And flashing swords reflecting rigid faces in the street.
Pouring on, pouring on,
To a drum's loud threatening beat,
And the war-hymns and the cheering of the people in the street.
And so it must be while the world goes rolling round its course,
The warning pen shall write in vain, the warning voice grow hoarse,
But not until a city feels Red Revolution's feet
Shall its sad people miss awhile the terrors of the street --
The dreadful everlasting strife
For scarcely clothes and meat
In that pent track of living death -- the city's cruel street.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Contemplating Hell
Contemplating Hell, as I once heard it,
My brother Shelley found it to be a place
Much like the city of London. I,
Who do not live in London, but in Los Angeles,
Find, contemplating Hell, that it
Must be even more like Los Angeles.
Also in Hell,
I do not doubt it, there exist these opulent gardens
With flowers as large as trees, wilting, of course,
Very quickly, if they are not watered with very expensive water. And fruit markets
With great leaps of fruit, which nonetheless
Possess neither scent nor taste. And endless trains of autos,
Lighter than their own shadows, swifter than
Foolish thoughts, shimmering vehicles, in which
Rosy people, coming from nowhere, go nowhere.
And houses, designed for happiness, standing empty,
Even when inhabited.
Even the houses in Hell are not all ugly.
But concern about being thrown into the street
Consumes the inhabitants of the villas no less
Than the inhabitants of the barracks.
poem by Bertolt Brecht
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Division
Some people have to work all day
just to make ends meet.
And some get to live a life we call
living on easy street.
Now these opposites will probably
never ever meet.
'Cause some live on big avenues,
the others on the street,
the street that has its houses
all lined up in a row,
hardly a space between them
where weeds in cracked cement grow.
They do not venture where
the flowers grow on avenues
to smell their glorious fragrances
or see their colorful views.
The separation between the two
is how the world proceeds,
some with all the comforts,
some with all the needs.
If this life we're living
had fairness in its heart
nowhere would you find on earth
such division tearing us apart.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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We Like To Change Somehow
between our two houses
is a high wall and what
we see are only
the tips of trees when
we climb the stairs
and stay on top
between us is this old
feeling of envy
the anger that we have
inherited from our
origins and then we
claim that we are too busy
to resolve them we do not
bother talking about them
and so the houses stand tall
and proud as they are
our defenses against
our craving for
oneness
the walls are guards
of our weakness our
longing to call ourselves
with our very own
names
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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