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I
THERE’S not a person in the street, | |
| This merry-making summer day! | |
| The houses stand in dull array; | |
| No profit on their doors to beat, | |
| For all their owners are away. | 5 |
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| The gardens blossom white and red | |
| All solitary in the sun, | |
| Save where some timid creatures run; | |
| Secure across the lawns to tread, | |
| No human dangers here to shun,— | 10 |
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| Since men have gone on holiday; | |
| Have left the still, suburban street | |
| For that wide park, where people meet | |
| In pleasures till the eve is grey. | |
| Oh, but the home-coming is sweet! | 15 |
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II
There’s not a person in the street | |
| Where wandering in grief I go. | |
| These strange small houses, set in row, | |
| Send out no human form to greet, | |
| No busy footfalls to and fro. | 20 |
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| Tall poplars raise their shafts beside; | |
| And mingled shades and sunbeams bless | |
| God’s Acre, in its quietness— | |
| God’s town, where men are drawn to bide | |
| Untroubled by the world’s distress. | 25 |
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| There comes no opening of the gate, | |
| Though to my friend I plead and pray. | |
| ‘Patience!’ the trees and sunbeams say. | |
| ‘Here only empty houses wait, | |
| While souls are keeping holiday.’ | 30 |
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