Classic Poem

When the young moon faints over Halsted Street
In a sultry, sullen sky,
I hear the beat of alien feet
And watch the world go by.

I hear the beat of alien feet
And the lilt of an alien song,
Through the lifeless air of the littered street
Clangs loud a brazen gong! ...

They have banished Beauty from Halsted Street,
They have banished the clean, green ways;
The children shout in the noisome heat
Or fret through the strident days.

And youth philanders in Halsted Street —
But never a tree nor shrine,
Nor a stone to the dead, nor a fountain sweet,
Nor hint of blossoming vine

Endears the crossways — nor any prayers
For peace, nor old bells' chime;
Men gamble in brazen or bitter wares —
For the rest, no time, no time!

" Big Bargains " flourish in Halsted Street,
Hardware and other things,
But the sky is a dead moon's winding-sheet
And the air is too thick for wings!

The ice-cream man from Calabria
Rubs shoulders with Gypsy and Jew,
And matzos with dates from Arabia —
And the ancient dissolves in the new. . . .

While the dreams of Age turn to Thessaly
Or Attic fields of corn,
Or to sunny vineyards of Sicily,
The honk of a motor horn

Stirs the thoughts of Youth to some victory
In the trampled glooms of France,
From dismal toil in a factory
To that girl at last night's dance! ...

There are widows who weep in Halsted Street,
There are Jews who barter and save,
But the New World clangs with a heartless beat,
And the Old has found a grave! ...

When the sick moon dies over Halsted Street
In her smoky bed of sky,
The funeral feet of the people beat
An alien, ancient cry!