Recent Poems of Life and Labour

THEODORE DREISER

THE FACTORY

Unapprehended, the stealing dawn, And now, the grinding cars,

Bearing their human loads Cityward or out.

Cars full of men and girls, Theirs habby clothes,speaking of work, Their deepest, darkest moods re' pressed,

Their paling faces Speaking the needs they feel.

Yet here is one who dreams a dream, And here is one who laughs,

And here is one who sings a song,

Or moons,

Or scowls;

Old blood a'chill,

Young blood at play,

Or fearsome youth,

Or gloom, or need, upon the march, The while they dodge the trucks and cars.

But hark you—the great whistle there About thecorner,overtheshoefactory, Under the tall chimney that belches smoke.

Against a leaden sky.

It shrieks and bellows its fierce warning,

It yells, it yells:

"Haste ye, haste ye, haste ye,

"Lest ye want,

"Lest poverty o'ertake ye,

"Lest ye may not eat,

"Lest the respect of men fall from

ye"—

And they believe it.

Like a flood that feeds a chasm— Like the grain that fills a hopper. Oh, clattering feet Oh, whirring, murmuring wheels Oh, trembling, fleeing thoughts that run

Before the giant whistles you believe.

THE "BAD" HOUSE

Flaring, noisy taverns,

Babbling houses of bawds and roisterers,

Who, .

In the red hours of the night,

Thrill the dull flesh

With their screaming orgies

And pulsing, sweaty hungers;

While chiller passioned souls Elsewhere dream pale dreams Of better worlds and ways.

THE STREAM

Oh, the great urge—the vivid, clash ing stream!

In it men tumble and clash.

They steer their cockleshells against a swirling tide.

They strain and curse each other in the harbour marts.

And the reaches of it are wide, wide, And there is no horizon and no boundary.

And here is one who says that Jesus will save,

And another, Buddha,

And another, Marduk,

And another, Osiris,

And another, Zeus,

And another, Thor,

And another, "Gold is all,"

And many there are who cry: "There is no God."

Yet all the while the stream runs, clashing, bright,

And men strain and curse in the har' bour marts.

They cry and part with that they love.

And there is no boundary, and there is no horizon.

GEDDO STREET

Bleary dwellings,

Dreary dwellings—

Mansions remodeled into tawdry shops;

And flaming posters on vacant lots Telling of dubious attractions Or impossible delights—

For these.

And open saloon doors at every corner,

And girls and children Plodding home through the wet win try streets,

Or, in summer,

Idling in hallways Or doors, or windows,

Or slipping away to the gayeties of a trumpery beach Or a park,

And dreaming rag dreams Of happiness In rags.

And the flash of splendid machines, Speeding to the west,

That never pause And the looks of eyes That know not this,

Nor vice defiant,

Nor poverty equally so,

Nor aught of rags,

That make all riches interesting.

Yet Gcddo Street, it knows—

It knows its worth (This dirty street,

(This meanest street,

(This beaten street) —

It knows that it it is,

Antithesis of that—

That makes that other Interesting.