Vachel Lindsay

The Drunkards in the Street

THE Drunkards in the street are calling
     one another,
Heeding not the night-wind, great of heart and
     gay,—
Publicans and wantons—
Calling, laughing, calling,
While the Spirit bloweth Space and Time away.
 
Why should I feel the sobbing, the secrecy,
     the glory,
This comforter, this fitful wind divine?
I the cautious Pharisee, the scribe, the whited
     sepulchre—
I have no right to God, he is not mine.
 
Within their gutters, drunkards dream of Hell.
I say my prayers by my white bed to-night,
With the arms of God about me, with the
     angels singing, singing
Until the grayness of my soul grows white.
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