By the city dead-house by the gate, As idly sauntering wending my way from the clangor, I curious pause, for lo, an outcast form, a poor dead prostitute brought, Her corpse they deposit unclaim'd, it lies on the damp brick pavement, The divine woman, her body, I see the body, I look on it alone, That house once full of passion and beauty, all else I notice not, Nor stillness so cold, nor running water from faucet, nor odors morbific impress me, But the house alone -- that wondrous house -- that delicate fair house -- that ruin! That immortal house more than all the rows of dwellings ever built! Or white-domed capitol with majestic figure surmounted, or all the old high-spired cathedrals, That little house alone more than them all -- poor, desperate house! Fair, fearful wreck -- tenement of a soul -- itself a soul, Unclaim'd, avoided house -- take one breath from my tremulous lips, Take one tear dropt aside as I go for thought of you, Dead house of love -- house of madness and sin, crumbled, crush'd. House of life, erewhile talking and laughing -- but ah, poor house, dead even then, Months, years, an echoing, garnish'd house -- but dead, dead, dead. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE AWAKENING RIVER by KATHERINE MANSFIELD SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: RICHARD BONE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE LITTLE PEOPLES by CLAUDE MCKAY TO WHISTLER, AMERICAN; ON LOAN EXHIBIT OF PAINTINGS AT TATE GALLERY by EZRA POUND CLARK STREET BRIDGE by CARL SANDBURG |