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