Harold Monro

THE HEAVY sounds are over-sweet

That droop above the hooded street,

At any moment ripe to fall and lie;

And when that wind will swagger up the town

They’ll bend a moment, then will fly

All clattering down.

Troops come and go of urchin breeze;

They flick your face or smack the trees,

Then round the corner spin and leap

With whistling cries,

Rake their rubbish in a heap

And throw it in your eyes.

(Much preparation of the earth and air

Is needed everywhere

Before that first large drop of rain can fall.)

Smells of the sea, or inland grass,

Come staring through the town and pass.

Brilliant old Memories drive in state

Along the way, but cannot wait;

And many a large unusual bird

Hovers across the sky half-heard.

But listen. It is He—

At last he comes:

Gigantic tyrant panting through the street,

Slamming the windows of our little homes,

Banging the doors, knocking the chimneys down.

Oh, his loud tramp: how scornfully he can meet

Great citizens, and lash them with his sleet!

Everything will be altered in our town.

He’ll wipe the film of habit clean away.

While he remains,

His cloak is over everything we do,

And the whole town complains.

A sombre scroll;

An inner room.

A crystal bowl:

Waters of gloom.

Oh, the darkened house—

Into silence creep.

The world is cold;

The people weep.