Classic Poem

A girl before him knelt in silent prayer,
A stylish hat poised on her red-brown hair
Caught up behind in quite the latest mode
By a coquettish comb, so that it showed
The warm smooth neck in shadow softly lit
By light reflected from the collar round it—
Pure dazzling linen, turned Medici-wise
Rigid and high to please fantastic eyes.
There, as she knelt in arching dark cloth shoes
And silken stockings, the dim hanging air
Curtained her round, incense proceeded from her
As if she were a holy shrine: he trembled;
All the vast arches glimmered shadow-wise;
Vague, insubstantial shone the gleaming stone;
Life streamed in from the encircling universe
And gathered in great waves that softly swept
Through the dim aisles, up and down the nave,
Thundering softly like a myriad horse
A myriad horse that scour a mystic plain
In muffled dreams at dawn. His soul bent down
And kissed her feet: then he saw her rise,
Sit for a moment, deftly try her hair,
Take out a glass—content that she was fair
Escaping from each movement, each svelt line
Of arm and fingers. Ay, the world sat there,
The ancient world, the modern, very wise,
Sat in that mighty church, and subtly drew
Its subtle fingers o'er the chords of life,
Drew melody from all the carven stones
That played like harps about her,
From the great heavy arches languor drew,
And glitter from the jewels of her that stood
Within the blue and gold mosaicked niche
Above the altar, drew from those great domes
A murmur as of droves of doves descending,
Whirl upon whirl, a cloud of fluttering feet
Filling invisibly the empty chairs.


His soul rose up, and very swiftly swept
Through the dim nave, up and down the aisles
Like a great eagle filled with harmony
Of earth and sky and lifting in its rhythm
The little streams, the hum of rustling trees,
The tinkling waterfalls, the march of clouds
The soundless ripples wrinkling flat-faced lakes
Expressionlessly set in shadowy rims,
The blue and hollow laughter of the sky,
The swift green flash of the rotating earth
And the mad tumbling waters of the sea,
Crystalline green and shattered, splintered white,
All, all caught up in one throb of life.
And he beheld her soft, firm moulded arm
Closely ensheathed adjust a truant curl
From the warm profile, then their eyes did meet,
And her blood quickened so that once again
She took her mirror and with conscious poise
Of head and shoulders told him that she knew
How fair she was, and how his blood was stirred
Just at the sight of her disdainful fingers.
Then she arose, passed to the centre aisle,
And genuflected; he watched her walk away,
Proud and self-conscious of her exceeding beauty.
He followed her to the porch and saw her step
Into a waiting car; her dark eyes glowed
To feel his admiration, though she showed
No sign she saw him, save to loose her fur
Back from her slender, warm and delicate throat.

She drove away, and all was faded then,
The swift car dwindled and at once was gone;
The street was empty, little heaps of rubbish
Sat vanishing by the side of the empty gutters—
Dry, incoherent, dwindling back to space
In unobservant silence. Was it a Dream
That some few streets away the roaring traffic
Of living millions streamed incessantly?
No, he could hear its hum, remote and dim,
Just like flies buzzing in that empty street,
Buzzing against the doors and the closed windows.
Not one door opened, no one ever came
Out of those buildings, those high blocks of flats
Of yellow bricks and dark bricks and cement.
He was alone, watching the dry dust dwindle,
Watching the crumbling shell of life departed,
Life that had gone and left the hollow sunshine,
The dust-heaps and the row of blistered doors.

Still he stood there and all was quiet about him.
Remote, O how remote, the long street seemed!
His heart stirred in him, and a scrap of paper
Whirled in a corner, turning helplessly:
He felt as if thrust in some fourth dimension,
As if he'd accidentally uplifted
A back-cloth corner of the world's set stage,
And looking behind the scenes had found no bustle,
No throng and tumult, no directing hand,
Only a little scrap of whirling paper,
And he himself, intense, and breathing hard,
Fixed, listening to his own heart's palpitation.
It was a moment only, one brief moment,
And then there glided, rumbling heavily,
A Dream from the other world, a Pickford van,
A coalescence of strange creaks and noises
That drew across his mind; the Driver sat,
A limp bent figure with an open mouth,
A two-days' beard, and grime-ringed vacant eyes,
Suspended o'er a ragged, ambling horse,
Rocked to the music of the jingling harness;
While the wheels turning with a different motion
And the straps flapping, and the swaying Driver
All gave the semblance of a Dream, that faded—
Round the next corner—all was still again.