A Yorkshire River
THE silent surfaces sleep With a sullen viscous flow, And scarce in the squalid deep Swing the dead weeds to and fro, And no living thing is there to swim or creep In the sunless gulfs below. And beneath are the ooze and the slime, Where the corpse lies as it fell, The hidden secrets of crime Which no living tongue shall tell, The shameful story of time, The old, old burden of hell. All the grasses upon the bank Are bitter with scurf and drift, And the reeds are withered and dank; And sometimes, when the smoke clouds shift, You may see the tall shafts in a hideous rank Their sulphurous fumes uplift. From the black blot up the stream The funeral barges glide, And the waves part as in a dream, From broad bow and sunken side; And 'tis 'greed, greed!' hisses from coal and from steam, Foul freightage and turbid tide, Like the life of a slumb'ring soul Grown dull in content and health, Whose dark depths lazily roll, Whose still currents creep by stealth. Nor sorrow nor yearning comes to control The monotonous tide of wealth. Fair or foul, in life as in death, One blight and corruption o'er all, Blow on them, great wind, with thy breath, Fall, blinding water-floods, fall, Till the dead life below awakeneth, And deep unto deep doth call!
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