Fleet Street

BENEATH 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!