Classic Poem

When he goes whistling down the street —
His eyes are young and young his feet —
He does not know the words that stand
Like rows of flame within his hand.
He casually rings the bell
Of 42, where all is well,
And waits there in the vestibule,
Where it is hushed and clean and cool;
A careless lad who does not guess
The words he brings bring emptiness,
Bring sorrow and engulfing tears,
And change the smooth march of the years.
The door is opened. Nevermore
Will one pass through that friendly door.
White fingers tear the envelope,
White fingers through the message grope.
There is a cry, a sound of feet. ...
A boy goes whistling down the street.