Fleet Street

TH this narrow jostling street,    Unruffled by the noise of feet,  Like a slow organ-note I hear  The pulses of the great world beat.    Unseen beneath the city’s show          Through this aorta ever flow  The currents of the universe—  A thousand pulses throbbing low!    Unheard beneath the pavement’s din  Unknown magicians sit within          Dim caves, and weave life into words  On patient looms that spin and spin.    There, uninspired, yet with the dower  Of mightier mechanic power,  Some bent, obscure Euripides          Builds the loud drama of the hour!    There, from the gaping presses hurled,  A thousand voices, passion-whirled,  With throats of steel vociferate  The incessant story of the world!            So through this artery from age  To age the tides of passion rage,  The swift historians of each day  Flinging a world upon a page!    And then I pause and gaze my fill          Where cataracts of traffic spill  Their foam into the Circus.

Lo!  Look up, the crown on Ludgate Hill!    Remote from all the city’s moods,  In high, untroubled solitudes,          Like an old Buddha swathed in dream,  St.

Paul’s above the city broods!