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.