THE streets are dark at Clermont in Auvern. -- O steep and tortuous lava-streets, how plain With eyes that dream in daylight I discern Your narrow skies and gabled roofs again! See, through the splendours of the summer heat We climb the hill from Notre Dame du Port, A mountain at the end of every street, And every mountain crowned with tower or fort. Until, on the upmost ridges of the town, We turn into the narrowest street of all, And watch, at either end, the way slope down As steep and sudden as a waterfall! 'Twas there, above a booth of huckster's ware, Our Angel spread her broad and carven wings. She smiled with painted eyes and burnished hair Above a motley herd of trivial things; A Chancel-angel desecrate! We turned To barter for a price the lovely head, The wide blue listening eyes, the brow that yearned, The slim round neck and lips of palest red. But when we clasped our treasure in our hold -- Less perfect, like all treasure, being attained -- Behold, below the lovely eyes, behold About the mouth, the radiant face was stained! "True!" quoth the Vendor, "yet if words or blows Were ought avail, or children less a pest, Those lips and eyes would blossom like the rose! .. The children never cared to kiss the rest. "But every day, all weathers, wet or fine, Since first I hung your Angel at the door, Each blessed morning, on the stroke of nine, And every week-day evening after four, "The children from the school-house troop in bands, Rush down the street their helter-skelter run, Snatch at your Angel with their chubby hands, And laugh and leap to kiss it one by one. "And would you think they minded, if I played My lash about their necks? Who cares? Not they! For impudent, delighted, unafraid, They laugh their riotous laugh and rush away." The Merchant paused. We looked each in the face The other, bade our fancy one farewell; "Nay, keep your Angel in its olden place," We cried, "good friend; it is not yours to sell. "What, did you think us basest of the earth? That we, grown old, and heartsick with the truth, Should rob the little children of their mirth, And take the children's Angel from their youth." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LITTLE SNAIL by HILDA CONKLING AT CASTLE BOTEREL by THOMAS HARDY TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL by FRANCIS BRET HARTE THE GODS OF THE COPYBOOK HEADINGS by RUDYARD KIPLING BURNHAM-BEECHES by HENRY LUTTRELL |