Classic and Contemporary Poetry
A NAVVY'S PHILOSOPHY, by PATRICK MACGILL Poet's Biography First Line: Across life's varied ways we drift Last Line: Beside the master of the hall. Subject(s): Architecture & Architects; Brotherhood; Death; Labor & Laborers; Sacrifices; Dead, The; Work; Workers | ||||||||
ACROSS life's varied ways we drift Unto the tomb that yawns in wait, One ruling o'er the mighty state, One sweating on the double shift. I've whirled adown the sinful slope That leads to chasms of despair, And dwelt in haunts of hunger where The spectre sorrow jeers at hope. My ways are cast with many men Who fight with destiny and fail, The down and outers of the jail, The tavern and the gambling den The men who bet and drink and curse, Who tread the labyrinthine maze Of sin, who move on rugged ways, Who might be better ay, and worse! My dead-end comrades true as steel, The men who bravely bear the goad, The wild uncultured of the road Like them I speak just as I feel. 'Neath silver skies with silence shod, Engirdled by the Milky Way, And set with stars of brightest ray, As fits the far-off paths of God, I've slept with them; in lonely lands, Ere came the city vomit thence To take the house and claim the fence Built with the toil of calloused hands, I've wrought with them; where gin shops smell, And stagnant models smut the town, I've shared their plaints when out and down My brothers, don't I know them well! I've begged with them from door to door, And thought unutterable things Of lands where courtiers and where kings Still grind the faces of the poor. The cold grub eaten in the dawn, The wet shag smouldering as you smoke, For ever being down and broke, You learn to like it later on. You learn to like it for you must, Though hardly worth the pains you take, Or yet the sacrifice you make The barter for the vital crust. Of things abstruse I cannot sing In fitting strains, so let me say, From hand to mouth, from day to day Is not the right and proper thing. But let me sing in gayer strain, The glory of the wilder life, Apart a little from the strife, The feline fury and the pain. Despite the hate insensate which The fates have borne to crush me low, I love to watch the puppet show And count myself exceeding rich. You say I own no lordly halls, No parks extending far and wide, No cornice, column, cusp of pride, No paintings hanging from my walls. No hall of pride with fresco decked ? My mountain pillars rear on high, My floor the earth, my roof the sky, And God Himself the Architect. No paintings from a master's hand ? My canvas spreads from flower to star Barbaric, grand, anear, afar, From sea to sea, from land to land. No deep cathedral music swells For me, you say, I own it true, But under Heaven's gentian blue, What strains of sweetness fill the dells! The rustle of the wind-swept trees, The robin's song at early morn, The larks above the crimson corn, What music in the world like these! All, all are mine. The simple flower, The ocean in its madding wrath, The drunken wind that beats my path, The arched skies that shine or lower. I've sailed on ships with sails of fire, By amber ports, through carmine seas, And opal-tinted argosies, To dreamt-of islands of desire. For me the music of the streams, The tints of gold on heath and furze, Where wind-blown gorse clumps shake their spurs, For me the wonder-world of dreams. While you are selling at the mart, Or buying souls to glut your greed, (Who fatten on your brother's need,) In lonely ways I dwell apart: Or when the jewelled carcanet Of Heaven decks the darkling sky, Beside the cabin fire I lie And smoke my soothing cigarette, And dip in some enchanted page, Or linger o'er a story told By some grey chronicler of old, The dreamer of a long-past age. And as the smoke wreaths rise, meseems I live in Ind or Babylon, And share the hopes of poets gone, The dreamers of æsthetic dreams. Or sing of Rome, or bleed for Troy, Or dwell in Tyre or Nineveh But ah! 'tis fancy's boundless play, The wayward dreamings of a boy. 'Tis sweet to write it down in verse, Or think of it, but all the same, If e'er you try you'll find the game Is hardly worth a tinker's curse. The open road is passing grand When skimming on a motor car, But dossing 'neath the pallid star Is something you don't understand. In fact you'll hardly realize While lounging in your drawing room, How drear December's dirge of doom Across the snow-clad level flies. Or how the frosty crowbar sears The hand that lifts it from the drift You'll learn it on the ten-hour shift Where I was learning all these years. You'll likewise learn the useful rule, The motto of the navvy man, To do as little as you can And keep your pipe and stomach full. The song I sing is very rude, In sin mayhap my life I live, But ye are wise and will forgive As none of us are very good. We sin we'll sorrow later on! We laugh some day we're sure to weep! We live by night we'll fall asleep, And none may waken us at dawn! And we are brothers one and all, Some day we'll know through Heaven's grace, And then the drudge will find a place Beside the master of the hall. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AFTER WORKING SIXTY HOURS AGAIN FOR WHAT REASON by HICOK. BOB DAY JOB AND NIGHT JOB by ANDREW HUDGINS BIXBY'S LANDING by ROBINSON JEFFERS ON BUILDING WITH STONE by ROBINSON JEFFERS LINES FROM A PLUTOCRATIC POETASTER TO A DITCH-DIGGER by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS IN CALIFORNIA: MORNING, EVENING, LATE JANUARY by DENISE LEVERTOV |
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