Classic Poem

At dawn the City stirs. Her body aches
With the mad struggle of the day long dead,
And days before that ground her on their wheel.
She has not slept, for through her veins, the streets,
The tides of life have poured and rushed and beat
As swiftly as they did at Life's high noon.
All through the darkened hours a torrent swept
Down her innumerable thoroughfares,
A raging force that could not be subdued,
And robbed her of her slumber. All night long,
Shattered with pain, she sought to ease her brow
Upon the pillow of darkness—but in vain.
At length, in that strange hour before the light,
I think I heard the tired City sigh,
And heave one breath of utter weariness,
One frantic gasp that might atone for all
The sleep so mercilessly lost to her;
Then, girding all her strength, she rose, and faced
The immemorial sorrow of the day.

I saw the tired City fall in the arms of the Night,
Like a beautiful, weary woman, after the day's delight.

And she spake (I heard her whisper when the purple dusk came down,
A mantle from high heaven, to cover the teeming town):

“Mine eyes are heavy with anguish, my bleeding heart is oppressed,
For the burden of Life is on me, and I crave a little rest,

“A little ease from the sorrow I bore through the desperate day,
A surcease from my struggle and the busy noon's dismay.”

But the Night with longing sought her, and crushed her to his heart,
And I saw the olden ardor waken and throb and start;

For the Night was her ancient lover, valiant, yet cruel and strong,
And he craved a waking woman, on whose lips there lived a song,

He gave her wonderful jewels, long strings of glimmering pearls,
And her eyes that had been tired gleamed now like a beautiful girl's.

And he clasped on her throat a necklace that flashed and shone like fire;
O proudly rose the City in imperial attire!

And she sang (she who was weary) for her glorious lover's sake,
Though under the song I knew that her heart was like to break,

She thrilled with the old-time passion, and laughed like a little child;
When tears came brimming to her eyes, she brushed them back—and smiled.

Ah! this is the spirit of woman that burns in the City's breast—
She will turn with a laugh to her lover, forgetting her longed-for rest;

She will sing when the King commands her, doing his highest will—
And thus shall it be till the woman-soul and cities are hushed and still.