A narrow world is Lanky Tim's,
The funnel and the griding lift.
Never the blank walls drop or shift
To show the far fields thro' a rift
Where he might go and stretch his limbs.
Hour after hour the storeys rise.
"First floor? Yes, round the corner just,
For Madame Smirkey's Wig and Bust.
Second? That way for Lawyer Thrust.
Fifth?"--The quack doctor, spiders, dust ...
These are his depths and these his skies.
And did Life take you unawares
While you were dreaming still your dreams,
And eyes were wild and shy with gleams,
And heart was thick with aching themes?
--But someone's pushed the bell downstairs.
And did you fly thro' boyland dells
To catch the songs of youthful kings,
And fly before the flight of Springs?
--But there's no room in here for wings,
Where Life is only these three things--
A lift, a grid, a screech of bells.
Poor Lanky Tim, the days that drift
Thro' your drab dismal prison, they
Have drifted all those dreams away,
Till your heart's just a pumping clay.
And now I often wonder, say,
If you'll be nearer God some day
Than the fifth storey up the lift.