# Faces in the Street



## Warrigal (Oct 11, 2016)

This is a poem from early last century.
Can we relate to it today?

[h=2]*Faces in the Street*[/h]*Henry Lawson* 
They lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone
  That want is here a stranger, and that misery’s unknown;
  For where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet
  My window-sill is level with the faces in the street —
Drifting past, drifting past,
  To the beat of weary feet —

While I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.
And cause I have to sorrow, in a land so young and fair,
  To see upon those faces stamped the marks of Want and Care;
  I look in vain for traces of the fresh and fair and sweet
  In sallow, sunken faces that are drifting through the street —
Drifting on, drifting on,
  To the scrape of restless feet;
  I can sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.

In hours before the dawning dims the starlight in the sky
  The wan and weary faces first begin to trickle by,
  Increasing as the moments hurry on with morning feet,
  Till like a pallid river flow the faces in the street —
Flowing in, flowing in,
  To the beat of hurried feet —
Ah! I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.

The human river dwindles when ’tis past the hour of eight,
  Its waves go flowing faster in the fear of being late;
  But slowly drag the moments, whilst beneath the dust and heat
  The city grinds the owners of the faces in the street —
Grinding body, grinding soul,
  Yielding scarce enough to eat —
Oh! I sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.

And then the only faces till the sun is sinking down
  Are those of outside toilers and the idlers of the town,
  Save here and there a face that seems a stranger in the street,
  Tells of the city’s unemployed upon his weary beat —
Drifting round, drifting round,
  To the tread of listless feet —
Ah! My heart aches for the owner of that sad face in the street.

And when the hours on lagging feet have slowly dragged away,
  And sickly yellow gaslights rise to mock the going day,
  Then flowing past my window like a tide in its retreat,
  Again I see the pallid stream of faces in the street —
Ebbing out, ebbing out,
  To the drag of tired feet,
  While my heart is aching dumbly for the faces in the street.

And now all blurred and smirched with vice the day’s sad pages end,
  For while the short ‘large hours’ toward the longer ‘small hours’ trend,
  With smiles that mock the wearer, and with words that half entreat,
  Delilah pleads for custom at the corner of the street —
Sinking down, sinking down,
  Battered wreck by tempests beat —
A dreadful, thankless trade is hers, that Woman of the Street.

But, ah! to dreader things than these our fair young city comes,
  For in its heart are growing thick the filthy dens and slums,
  Where human forms shall rot away in sties for swine unmeet,
  And ghostly faces shall be seen unfit for any street —
Rotting out, rotting out,
  For the lack of air and meat —
In dens of vice and horror that are hidden from the street.

I wonder would the apathy of wealthy men endure
  Were all their windows level with the faces of the Poor?
  Ah! Mammon’s slaves, your knees shall knock, your hearts in terror beat,
  When God demands a reason for the sorrows of the street,
  The wrong things and the bad things
  And the sad things that we meet
  In the filthy lane and alley, and the cruel, heartless street.

I left the dreadful corner where the steps are never still,
  And sought another window overlooking gorge and hill;
  But when the night came dreary with the driving rain and sleet,
  They haunted me — the shadows of those faces in the street,
Flitting by, flitting by,
  Flitting by with noiseless feet,
  And with cheeks but little paler than the real ones in the street.

Once I cried: ‘Oh, God Almighty! if Thy might doth still endure,
  Now show me in a vision for the wrongs of Earth a cure.’
And, lo! with shops all shuttered I beheld a city’s street,
  And in the warning distance heard the tramp of many feet,
  Coming near, coming near,
  To a drum’s dull distant beat,
  And soon I saw the army that was marching down the street.

Then, like a swollen river that has broken bank and wall,
  The human flood came pouring with the red flags over all,
  And kindled eyes all blazing bright with revolution’s heat,
  And flashing swords reflecting rigid faces in the street.
  Pouring on, pouring on,
  To a drum’s loud threatening beat,
  And the war-hymns and the cheering of the people in the street.

And so it must be while the world goes rolling round its course,
  The warning pen shall write in vain, the warning voice grow hoarse,
  But not until a city feels Red Revolution’s feet
  Shall its sad people miss awhile the terrors of the street —
The dreadful everlasting strife
  For scarcely clothes and meat
For scarcely clothes and meat
In that pent track of living death — the city’s cruel street.


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## NancyNGA (Oct 12, 2016)

Warrigal said:


> This is a poem from early last century.  Can we relate to it today?



Great poem, although I struggle with poetry for some reason. Just know what I like.   

Can we relate? Yes, but I'll have to read it 7 more times to give an answer that makes sense.


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## Meanderer (Oct 13, 2016)

I can not relate to such a dreary,hopeless view of life.  Hope is always present in the crowd.

*To Hope - Poem by John Keats*

WHEN by my solitary hearth I sit,
And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom;
When no fair dreams before my "mind's eye" flit,
And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!

Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night,
Where woven boughs shut out the moon's bright ray,
Should sad Despondency my musings fright,
And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away,
Peep with the moonbeams through the leafy roof,
And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof!

Should Disappointment, parent of Despair,
Strive for her son to seize my careless heart;
When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air,
Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart:
Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright,
And fright him as the morning frightens night!

Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear
Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow,
O bright-eyed Hope, my morbidfancy cheer;
Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow:
Thy heaven-born radiance around me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!

Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain,
From cruel parents, or relentless fair;
O let me think it is not quite in vain
To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air!
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!

In the long vista of the years to roll,
Let me not see our country's honour fade:
O let me see our land retain her soul,
Her pride, her freedom; and not freedom's shade.
From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed---
Beneath thy pinions canopy my head!

Let me not see the patriot's high bequest,
Great Liberty! how great in plain attire!
With the base purple of a court oppress'd,
Bowing her head, and ready to expire:
But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings
That fill the skies with silver glitterings!

And as, in sparkling majesty, a star
Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud;
Brightening the half veil'd face of heaven afar:
So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud,
Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed,
Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head! 


John Keats


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## NancyNGA (Oct 21, 2016)

Warrigal said:


> This is a poem from early last century.
> Can we relate to it today?



Warri, sorry for bringing this back up so late. Couldn't let it go, though. 

I think this part we can relate to today.



> Then, like a swollen river that has broken bank and wall,
> The human flood came pouring with the red flags over all,
> And kindled eyes all blazing bright with revolution’s heat,
> And flashing swords reflecting rigid faces in the street.
> ...




BUT, it won't be poor people who will be doing the marching. Poverty won't be the reason.


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## Warrigal (Oct 21, 2016)

I thought this poem was written around the time of the First World War but apparently it was written in 1888. 
He would have been referring to militant trade unionism that was a rising force at that time.


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