Poems (Storrie)/The Thoroughfare of Souls
The Thoroughfare of Souls.
The wind that cleaves an open road Through endless plains of air; This is the thoroughfare of souls, This is their viewless stair.
No footfalls echo as they pass, Oh! soft as velvet shod; No footprints lie to mark the way These phantom feet have trod.
No cry of greeting or farewell Thrills through these silent aisles; No whispered words, no hushed adieux, No sad nor welcoming smiles.
Yet thick and fast, they meet and puss Unto their unseen goals; It is a crowded pathway, this, The thoroughfare of souls.
A glimmer, as of falling dew Or snowflake, flickering white; And in some household, far below, A child is born to-night.
A grim shade, foul with memories, Room for the leper. Room! And through the shrinking lines it fares Naked, unto its doom.
The warm earth lieth underneath, Men toil and smile, or weep; And ever these dim multitudes, Their shadowy limits keep.
Along the azure paths they crowd— A tide that ebbs and flows; But who, or whence, or whither? Ah! The wind, perchance, it knows.
The wind is all the voice they have. It shrills, or moans, or sighs; And breathes their messages to us, Yet carries no replies.
You'll hear them whisper when, at dusk, A shiver shakes the trees; Then listen! never think 'tis but The murmur of a breeze.
The wind, the wind! it knoweth all, As round the world it rolls; We, too, shall tread, some happy day. The thoroughfare of souls.