Of deep cobbled streets wherein dray upon dray ever marches,
The sky is a broken lid, a litter of smashed yellow pieces.
To those under mouldering roofs, where life to an hour is crowded,
Life, to a div of the floor, to an inch of the light,
And night is all fevrous-hot, a time to be bawded and rowdied,
Day is a time of grinding, that looks for rest to the night.
Those who would live, do it quickly, with quick tears, sudden laughter,
Quick oaths—terse blasphemous thoughts about God the Creator:
Those who would die, do it quickly, with noose from the rafter,
Or the black shadowy eddies of Thames, the hurry-hater.