The Drunkards in the Street

By Vachel Lindsay

The Drunkards in the street are calling one another,

Heeding not the night-wind, great of heart and gay,—

Publicans and wantons —

Calling, laughing, calling,

While the Spirit bloweth Space and Time away.

Why should I feel the sobbing, the secrecy, the glory,

This comforter, this fitful wind divine?

I the cautious Pharisee, the scribe, the whited sepulchre —

I have no right to God, he is not mine.

Within their gutters, drunkards dream of Hell.

I say my prayers by my white bed to-night,

With the arms of God about me, with the angels singing, singing

Until the grayness of my soul grows white.