The Dray
Huge through the darkened street
The Dray comes, rolling an uneven thunder
Of wheels and trampling feet;
The shaken windows stare in sleepy wonder.
Now through an open space,
Where loitering groups about the tavern’s fume
Show many a sullen face
And brawling figure in the lighted gloom,
It moves, a shadowy force
Through misery triumphant: flushed, on high
Guiding his easy course,
A giant sits, with indolent soft eye.
He turns not, that dim crowd
Of listless forms beneath him to behold;
Shawled women with head bowed
Flitting in hasty stealth, and children old:
Calm as some conqueror
Rode through old Rome, nor heeded at his heel,
‘Mid the proud spoils of war,
What woeful captives thronged his chariot wheel.
