Here, where the thoroughfares meet at an angle <br />Of ninety degrees (this angle is right), <br />You may hear the loafers that jest and wrangle <br />Through the sun-lit day and the lamp-lit night; <br />Though day be dreary and night be wet, <br />You will find a ceaseless concourse met; <br />Their laughter resounds and their Fife tongues jangle, <br />And now and again their Fife fists fight. <br /> <br />Often here the voice of the crier <br />Heralds a sale in the City Hall, <br />And slowly but surely drawing nigher <br />Is heard the baker's bugle call. <br />The baker halts where the two ways meet, <br />And the blast, though loud, is far from sweet <br />That with breath of bellows and heart of fire <br />He blows, till the echoes leap from the wall. <br /> <br />And on Saturday night just after eleven, <br />When the taverns have closed a moment ago, <br />The vocal efforts of six or seven <br />Make the corner a place of woe. <br />For the time is fitful, the notes are queer, <br />And it sounds to him who dwelleth near <br />Like the wailing for cats in a feline heaven <br />By orphan cats who are left below. <br /> <br />Wherefore, O Bejant, Son of the Morning, <br />Fresh as a daisy dipt in the dew, <br />Hearken to me and receive my warning: <br />Though rents be heavy, and bunks be few <br />And most of them troubled with rat or mouse, <br />Never take rooms in a corner house; <br />Or sackcloth and ashes and sad self-scorning <br />Shall be for a portion unto you.<br /><br />Robert Fuller Murray<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-street-corner/
