| |
| BENEATH this narrow jostling street, | |
| Unruffled by the noise of feet, | |
| Like a slow organ-note I hear | |
| The pulses of the great world beat. | |
| |
| Unseen beneath the city’s show | 5 |
| Through this aorta ever flow | |
| The currents of the universe— | |
| A thousand pulses throbbing low! | |
| |
| Unheard beneath the pavement’s din | |
| Unknown magicians sit within | 10 |
| Dim caves, and weave life into words | |
| On patient looms that spin and spin. | |
| |
| There, uninspired, yet with the dower | |
| Of mightier mechanic power, | |
| Some bent, obscure Euripides | 15 |
| Builds the loud drama of the hour! | |
| |
| There, from the gaping presses hurled, | |
| A thousand voices, passion-whirled, | |
| With throats of steel vociferate | |
| The incessant story of the world! | 20 |
| |
| So through this artery from age | |
| To age the tides of passion rage, | |
| The swift historians of each day | |
| Flinging a world upon a page! | |
| |
| And then I pause and gaze my fill | 25 |
| Where cataracts of traffic spill | |
| Their foam into the Circus. Lo! | |
| Look up, the crown on Ludgate Hill! | |
| |
| Remote from all the city’s moods, | |
| In high, untroubled solitudes, | 30 |
| Like an old Buddha swathed in dream, | |
| St. Paul’s above the city broods! | |
| |
