  I Elf of the City, a lean little hollow-eyed boy Ragged and tattered, but lithe as a slip of the Spring, Under the lamp-light he runs with a reckless joy Shouting a murderer's doom or the death of a King. Out of the darkness he leaps like a wild strange hint, Herald of tragedy, comedy, crime and despair, Waving a poster that hurls you, in fierce black print One word Mystery, under the lamp's white glare. II Elf of the night of the City he darts with his crew Out of a vaporous furnace of colour that wreathes Magical letters a-flicker from crimson to blue High overhead. All round him the mad world seethes. Hansoms, like cantering beetles, with diamond eyes Run through the moons of it; busses in yellow and red Hoot; and St. Paul's is a bubble afloat in the skies, Watching the pale moths flit and the dark death's head. III Painted and powdered they shimmer and rustle and stream Westward, the night moths, masks of the Magdalen! See, Puck of the revels, he leaps through the sinister dream Waving his elfin evangel of Mystery, Puck of the bubble or dome of their scoffing or trust, Puck of the fairy-like tower with the clock in its face, Puck of an Empire that whirls on a pellet of dust Bearing his elfin device thro' the splendours of space. IV Mystery—is it the scribble of doom on the dark, Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin, again? Mystery—is it a scrap of remembrance, a spark Burning still in the fog of a blind world's brain? Elf of the gossamer tangles of shadow and light, Wild electrical webs and the battle that rolls League upon perishing league thro' the ravenous night, Breaker on perishing breaker of human souls. V Soaked in the colours, a flake of the flying spray Flung over wreckage and yeast of the murderous town, Onward he flaunts it, innocent, vicious and gay, Prophet of prayers that are stifled and loves that drown, Urchin and sprat of the City that roars like a sea Surging around him in hunger and splendour and shame, Cruelty, luxury, madness, he leaps in his glee Out of the mazes of mist and the vistas of flame. VI Ragged and tattered he scurries away in the gloom: Over the thundering traffic a moment his cry Mystery! Mystery!—reckless of death and doom Rings; and the great wheels roll and the world goes by. Lost, is it lost, that hollow-eyed flash of the light?— Poor little face flying by with the word that saves, Pale little mouth of the mask of the measureless night, Shrilling the heart of it, lost like the foam on its waves! |
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