Classic Poem

Unapprehended, the stealing dawn,
And now, the grinding cars,
Bearing their human loads
Cityward or out.
Cars full of men and girls,
Their shabby clothes speaking work,
Their deepest, darkest moods repressed,
Their paling faces
Speaking the needs they feel.
Yet here is one who dreams a dream,
And here is one who laughs,
And here is one who sings a song,
Or moans,
Or scowls;
Old blood a-chill,
Young blood at play,
Or fearsome youth,
Or gloom, or need upon the march,
The while they dodge the trucks and cars.

But hark you—the great whistle there
About the corner, over the shoe factory,
Under the tall chimney that belches smoke,
Against a leaden sky,
It shrieks and bellows its fierce warning,
It yells, it yells:
“Haste ye, haste ye, haste ye,
“Lest poverty o'ertake ye,
“Lest ye may not eat,
“Lest the respect of men fall from ye”—
And it they believe.

Like a flood that feeds a chasm—
Like the grain that fills a hopper.
Oh, clattering feet
Oh, whirring, murmuring wheels,
Oh, trembling, fleeing thoughts that run
Before the giant whistles you believe.