POETRY.
THE ROAD.
Our beyond Aldgate is a road, And a broad, Clean, noble thing it runs, For the sun's And wind's and man's delight, And the high stars at night.
There go Jewesses And Poles and Russ and these Pale-faced sons, Daughter of Thames and Paul's Betwixt walls and high walls Of sooted brick, ugly turned.
Thunder Of trams and 'buses crammed, Or Saturday-night dammed- Up, seething, dodging, Grumbling, laughing, over-busy Crowd in Mile End crammed : Or in one hour of joys When football plays Marvellous music on those hungry hkart-strings, And one lucky kick brings
Battle-winning in a Niagara of noise—
Or some furtive Trick of professionalism Plunges a crowd in Hell's Own tumult and scorn and hot-alive Furious cataclysm-- The referee quells.
Or in sight of a painted Face, though the tainted Smoke-blue atmosphere Of Music-hall, Cinema, Where happy Tom Parker Or Chaplin would grin him a Further defiance of consequence here, Or in drinkings of beer Or eatings of strange fish Or shelled things from barrows ; Stewed eels—winkles ; Roast pea-nut mingles Well with the whole.
Or fire-engine's law Of free-way when the quickest sees Smoke or sparks rising In places surprising And rings in fears' ecstasies.
For quick homeless carriages,
Brass-helmeted heroes—
But it might be advertising.
Anyhow folk live there And daily strive there, And earn their bread there, Make friends, see red there, As high on the clean hills Where soft sea-rapture fills The gladdening lungs.
And young souls are fleshed there And tyrants immeshed there As in Athens or Ukraine, And the heart hurts the brain Or the spirit is lashed there ; And thought is as vain, Hope constant and smashed there, As away a day's journey by train.
I. B. GthiNzire
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