Between the blackened curbs lie stacked the
harvest of the skies,
Long lines of frozen, grimy cocks befouled
by city feet;
On either side the racing throngs, the crowding
cliffs, the cries,
And ceaseless winds that eddy down to whip
the iron street.
The wagons whine beneath their loads, the
raw-boned horses strain;
A hundred sullen shovels claw and heave the
sodden mass—
There lifts no dust of scented moats, no cheery
call of swain,
Nor birds that pipe from border brush across
the yellow grass.
No cow-bells honk from upland fields, no sunset
thrushes call
To swarthy, bare-limbed harvesters beyond
the stubble roads;
But flanges grind on frosted steel, the weary
snow-picks fall,
And twisted, toiling backs are bent to pile the
bitter loads.
No shouting from the intervales, no singing from
the hill,
No scent of trodden tansy weeds among the
golden grain——,
Only the silent, cringing forms beneath the
aching chill.
Only the hungry eyes of want in haggard
cheeks of pain.