A Christian substance this, Whose sacrificial bliss Is firmly to outspread A path for men to tread, Whose joy it is to know The way the many go, And make the footing there Enduring, smooth, and fair. Doubtless the asphalt feels Those myriad grinding heels, The pounding horses' feet, The traffic of the street, The picks of fickle men That tear it up again, -- The cruel frosts that crack Its winter-stiffened back, The furnace of the sun When winter's days are done; Yet bears a cheerful heart For that inferior part, And heals the winter's woe With summer's tarry flow! Right is your rede to us, Brother bituminous! Where human sharks contend Each for a glutton's end, Where men ignoble fight Each for his petty right, Where men like leeches live Only to get, not give, -- Oh, for a second flood, Of black, asphaltic mud, To sweep them all away From out the groaning day, To make a pavement meet For more unselfish feet, -- Not damned, I mildly pray, But macadamed for aye! |