Arthur Henry Adams

Fleet Street

BENEATH this narrow jostling street,  
Unruffled by the noise of feet,  
Like a slow organ-note I hear  
The pulses of the great world beat.  
 
Unseen beneath the city’s show          
Through this aorta ever flow  
The currents of the universe—  
A thousand pulses throbbing low!  
 
Unheard beneath the pavement’s din  
Unknown magicians sit within          
Dim caves, and weave life into words  
On patient looms that spin and spin.  
 
There, uninspired, yet with the dower  
Of mightier mechanic power,  
Some bent, obscure Euripides          
Builds the loud drama of the hour!  
 
There, from the gaping presses hurled,  
A thousand voices, passion-whirled,  
With throats of steel vociferate  
The incessant story of the world!          
 
So through this artery from age  
To age the tides of passion rage,  
The swift historians of each day  
Flinging a world upon a page!  
 
And then I pause and gaze my fill          
Where cataracts of traffic spill  
Their foam into the Circus. Lo!  
Look up, the crown on Ludgate Hill!  
 
Remote from all the city’s moods,  
In high, untroubled solitudes,          
Like an old Buddha swathed in dream,  
St. Paul’s above the city broods!