English poetry

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City Dead-House, The

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 itself, 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.

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Poem City Dead-House, The - Walt Whitman