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Robert Laurence Binyon - Whitechapel High Road
Work rating: Low

Lusty life her river pours
 Along a road of shining shores.
 The moon of August beams
 Mild as upon her harvest slopes; but here
 From man`s full--breath`d abounding earth
 Exiled she walks, as one of alien birth,
 The pale, neglected foster--mother of dreams.
 For windows with resplendent stores
 Along the pavement dazzle and outstare
 The booths that front them; there,
 To the throng which loiters by in laughing streams
 Babble the criers: and `mid eager sounds
 The flaming torches toss to the wind their hair,
 And ruddy in trembling waves the light
 Flushes cheeks of wondering boys
 Assembled, their lips parted and eyes bright,
 As the medicine--seller his magic herb expounds,
 Or some old man displays his painted toys.
 Deaf with a vacant stillness of the tomb,
 At intervals a road deserted gapes,
 Where night shrinks back into her proper gloom,
 Frighted by boisterous flare
 Of the flame, that now through a cluster of green grapes
 Shines wanly, or on striped apple and smooth pear
 Flits blushing; now on rug or carpet spread
 In view of the merry buyers, the rude dyes
 Re--crimsons, or an antic shadow throws
 Over the chestnut brazier`s glowing eyes;
 And now the sleeping head
 Of a gipsy child in his dim corner shows,
 Huddled against a canvas wall, his bed
 An ancient sack: nor torch, nor hundred cries
 Awake him from his sweet profound repose.

 But thou, divine moon, with thine equal beam
 Dispensing patience, stealest unawares
 The thoughts of many that pass sorrowful on
 Else undiverted, amid the crowd alone:
 Embroiderest with beauties the worn theme
 Of trouble; to a fancied harbour calm
 Steerest the widow`s ship of heavy cares;
 And on light spirits of lovers, radiant grown,
 Droppest an unimaginable balm.
 Yet me to--night thy peace rejoices less
 Than this warm human scene, that of rude earth
 Pleasantly savours, nor dissembles mirth,
 Nor grief nor passion: sweet to me this press
 Of life unnumbered, where if hard distress
 Be tyrant, hunger is not fed
 Nor misery pensioned with the ill--tasting bread
 Of pity; but such help as earth ordains
 Betwixt her creatures, bound in common pains,
 One from another, without prayer, obtains.
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