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!