Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
DirgeRichard Hughes
T
In tortuous hid courts where the roar never ceases
Of deep cobbled streets wherein dray upon dray ever marches,
The sky is a broken lid, a litter of smashed yellow pieces.
Life, to a span of the floor, to an inch of the light;
And night is all feverous hot, a time to be bawded and rowdied:
Day is a time of grinding, that looks for rest to the night.
Quick oaths, terse blasphemous thoughts about God the Creator.
Those who would die, do it quickly; with noose from the rafter,
Or the black, shadowy eddies of Thames, the hurry-hater.
Death is a quiet and deep reliever, where soul upon soul
And wizened and thwarted body on body are loosed from their duty
Of living, and sink in a bottomless, edgeless, impalpable hole.
Black on the glare small figures that twist and are shrivelled in it.