The skylarks are far behind that sang over the down; I can hear no more those suburb nightingales; Thrushes and blackbirds sing in the gardens of the town In vain: the noise of man, beast, and machine prevails. But the call of children in the unfamiliar streets That echo with a familiar twilight echoing, Sweet as the voice of nightingale or lark, completes A magic of strange welcome, so that I seem a king Among man, beast, machine, bird, child, and the ghost That in the echo lives and with the echo dies. The friendless town is friendly; homeless, I am not lost; Though I know none of these doors, and meet but strangers' eyes. Never again, perhaps, after tomorrow, shall I see these homely streets, these church windows alight, Not a man or woman or child among them all: But it is All Friends' Night, a traveler's good-night. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FALCONER OF GOD by WILLIAM ROSE BENET RECESSIONAL by RUDYARD KIPLING THE TAXI by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS THE LUMINOUS HANDS OF GOD by ELEANOR WARFIELD KENLY BACON THE DEATH OF YE LIFE OF LOVE by JOSEPH BEAUMONT THE DRYAD by ABBIE FARWELL BROWN |