King Street

A morn, a sallow lamp-lit morn, A dawn that never breaks to day! Old, old the faces, and forlorn; The hearts look out, so seared, so grey! It is as if some upturned stone Had flung to light a vermin rout— For things misfeatured, souls unknown, Stagger in blind amaze about. Along their gleaming lines of light The charging trams go, head to ground; Out from the drifting pathways, white The faces flash—like faces drowned! And there with painted features drear, And eyes whose pathos still is sweet, The hunted hunters prowl and peer— Their lair the long, slow-surging street.