Classic Poem

Paperhanger, paperhanger — the ladder might have been longer. But the paperhanger who eats his bread on the ladder, with hands of paint and soot, hears not what is said below. Like a child in a cradle, with uplifted eyes, he rocks himself on the scaffolding — and doubtlessly people will pick him up after the misfortune shall have befallen him.
The physician in his white coat, who orders his shirt torn, listens to his heart until its beating ceases. Then he asks everyone to leave the house, and thrusts a paper into the watchman's hand, whom he leaves at the door. But the watchman is so unconcerned and indolent that he does not even carry his hand to his mouth when he feels like yawning.
But when the hour strikes and the hearse arrives — then, swaying and dragging themselves along in black coats and yellow shoes and carrying a red flag in their hands, come three " brothers " behind the " president. " And thus they keep on to Brooklyn Bridge. Then they return and sit down to a card game.
And once they play they've got to play until there is a din in their heads as of water-mills, and until the day appears on the walls. And when presently the drowsy " president " leaves for a bathhouse to sleep there, three " brothers " remain with the worry and the fright that grows in them with the rising sun. Then they clamber on the ladders again. And they work and doze.
Death bids them " Good morning " through the window, and meanwhile from under his black bosom he drags out a dream of a white and warm bed in a home, and into this bed he puts a woman than whom there can be none more beautiful, and as chill as ever and as mute, he wraps his dream about the paperhangers on the ladder — — —