“The dead alive and busy.”—Henry Vaughan.
Without, wind-lifted, lo! a little rose
(From the great Summer’s heart its life-blood flows),
For some fond spirit to reach and kiss and bless,
Climbs to the casement, brings the joyous wraith
Of the sun’s quick world, without, of joyousness
Into this still world of enchanted breath.
And, far away, behold the dust arise,
From streets white-hot, into the sunny skies!
The city murmurs: in the sunshine beats,
Through all its giant veins of throbbing streets,
The heart of Business, on whose sweltering brow
The dew shall sleep to-night (forgotten now).
There rush the many, toiling as but one;
There swarm the living myriads in the sun;
There all the mighty troubled day is loud
(Business, the god whose voice is of the crowd).
And, far above the sea-horizon blue,
Like sea-birds, sails are hovering into view.
There move the living; here the dead that move:
Within the book-world rests the noiseless lever
That moves the noisy, throngÈd world forever.
Below the living move, the dead above.