The wretched street-haunters of London tell me where are their vile homes,
The gin palaces alone invites them into a warmth that burns their hearts,
The dreary lodging houses scenes of filth they spend their nights in hell,
And in these dens of hate humans heard together with a rudeness of beasts.
No songs of olden days no romance, the city has poisoned grace and beauty,
No tenderness or love breaks through the darkness of their bitter spirits,
Nothing to look froward to with no hope, nothing soothes them into virtue,
Degradation is hideous with vulgarity the most revolting of life's gifts.
Theft with cunning, murder and brutal violence, crowd and crouch together,
They dream of more successful lies grander theft more infamies for tomorrow,
Tossing and turning through the bitter night half sleeping and half guarding,
Such is this a grand triumph of our great civilization, our countries wealth.
Categories:
infamies, history,
Form: Prose Poetry
My vision finds impair and seeks,
so stretching that my eye could reach
one day with Thee alone, not breach
some distant infamies impeach.
That burrowing of fate, that wretch
still seeking my interred regret
to bring down all my soul's expect,
though not as sundown takes inspect.
Tomorrow, Oh Thy worth be clef
to music, rising from my depth.
The song, the song - Oh love respect
that all my heart to Thee do stretch -
...and kindle promise, God has kept!
Categories:
infamies, music,
Form: Rhyme