I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at
sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and none else,
The day what belongs to the day -- at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
There once was an evangelical preacher
who made each sermon a double-feature:
first, the evils that tempt;
then, why he was exempt:
"One must know math's pitfalls to be a math teacher..."
I wander thro' each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of every Man,
In every Infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear.
How the Chimney-sweeper's cry
Every black'ning Church appalls;
And the hapless Soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls.
But most thro' midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlot's curse
Blasts the new born Infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.
From atop an old stone rampart,
one's head within the clouds,
one expects to see an old oxcart
through that foggy shroud.
But down below, the modern day:
buses, cafes, and cars.
I turn my head the other way,
and the world 's as it was:
Back in the times when that fortress
was besieged and battered,
and nothing moved freely but for
a flag -- singed and tattered.
There's a certain romantic view
of long-gone days of old,
but I think I'll be heading down
before I catch a cold.
