Poetry · Lessons of the Street

Lessons of the Street

Walking through life’s dusty highways,

Mid the tramp of hurrying feet,

We may gather much instruction

From the “lessons of the street.”

Now a beggar sues for succor⁠—

Nay, repress that look of pride!

’Neath that wrecked and shattered body

Doth a human soul reside.

Here’s a brow that seems to tell you,

“I am prematurely old;

I have spent my youthful vigor

In an eager search for gold.”

On the cheek of yon pale student

Is a divorcement most unkind⁠—

’Tis the cruel separation

Of his body from his mind.

Here a painted child of shame

Flaunts in costly robes of sin,

With a reckless mirth that cannot

Hide the smouldering fires within.

And here’s a face, so calm and mild,

Mid the restless din and strife;

It seems to say, in every line,

“I’m aiming for a higher life.”

Just then I caught a mournful glance,

As on the human river rushed,

A harrowing look, which plainly said,

“The music of my life is hushed.”

Look on that face, so deathly pale,

Its bloom and flush forever fled:

I started, for it seemed to bear

A message to the silent dead.

Thus hurries on the stream of life,

To empty where Death’s waters meet;

We pass along, we pass away⁠—

Thus end the lessons of the street.