Classic Poem

Children with heather in hand,
Passing along through the Strand,

Where have you been through the day?
In what far meads at play?

Your hands are filled with fern,
And your faces tingle and burn.

Was not the country sweet
And fresh to tired young feet?

Were not the grasses green
And the wonderful skies serene?

The wonderful miles of sky
That made you on fire to fly;

That made you long to be birds
Or gambol, like fleet-foot herds.

Now you are tired; your feet
Are weary; your young hearts beat.

Again from the flowery land
You return to the gaslit Strand.

And standing at theatre-door
In July, I watch you pour.

Tired, glad, through the street,
With innocent looks and sweet.

And after you come the girls
With wanton and golden curls.

Who live on the lusts of the Strand,
Not a few with ringed white hand.

Perhaps some short years ago,
That girl with the tresses aflow.

Went for a country day,
A school-treat, laughing and gay,

Like you, little girl, — who perhaps
May be caught in the town's lewd traps.

In a few more years, and follow
That woman whose laugh rings hollow.

O child with the gold gold hair
Will you be caught in the snare?

May God your steps preserve
That they stumble not thus, nor swerve.

From the heather-bell path to-day
You follow with footstep gay!

O gold-haired wonderful child,
With glances laughing and wild,

May you never along the Strand
With other than white child-hand.

Filled full of beautiful flowers
Pass, in the passionate hours.

Of later life; may the bloom
Of to-day's joy last till your tomb,

Keeping you tender and good
O child-face under the hood!

Keeping you gentle and fair,
O angel in soft night-air.

Of London passing along,
Not with a sigh, but a song!

And are those the tears I see
In the hard set eyes of thee.

O Strand-girl, watching the strut
Of the children whose one day out.

Has made them richer than queens;
Eight hours in grassy scenes.

O girl with the face still fair,
Kissed by the soft night-air,

Were you too fragrant as flowers,
In spirit, in long-lost hours?

Did you carry ferns and heather
Through London in July weather?

Oh, carry them once again;
Forget the sin and the pain.

The night-air waits to redeem
Thy spirit: the stars yet beam,

And the heather in front for thee
Shines, — and the moon on the sea.

So dreamed I; watching the throng
Of children, with shout and song.

After their country day,
As they crowded the crowded way,

Pressing their soft young curls
In the gowns of wanton girls,

And pushing amid the crowd
Of the night-Strand, boisterous, loud.

I watched them all pass by,
Kissed by the clear night-sky;

Watched them all till the last
Small baby, slumbering fast,

Wrapped in a tight red shawl,
Was carried by: God bless all.