Chapter 18

The dry death-rattle of the streets Asserts a joyless goal— Re-echoed clang where traffic meets, And drab monotony repeats The hour-encumbered rôle. Tinsel and glare, twin tawdry shams Outshine the evening star Where puppet-show and printed lie, Victim and trapper and trap, deny Old truths that always are. So fare ye, fare ye well, old roofs! The siren warns the shore, The flowing tide sings overside Of far-off beaches where abide The joys ye know no more! The salt sea spray shall kiss our lips— Kiss clean from the fumes that were, And gulls shall herald waking days With news of far-seen water-ways All warm, and passing fair. They’ve cast the shore-lines loose at last And coiled the wet hemp down— Cut picket-ropes of Kedar’s tents, Of time-clock task and square-foot rents! Good luck to you, old town! Oh, Africa is calling back Alluringly and low And few they be who hear the voice, But they obey—Lot’s wife’s the choice, And we must surely go! So fare ye, fare ye well, old roofs! The stars and clouds and trees In place of you! The heaped thorn fire— Delight for the town’s two-edged desire— For thrice-breathed breath the breeze! For rumble of wheels the lion’s roar, Glad green for trodden brown For potted plant and measured lawn The view of the velvet veldt at dawn! Good-bye to you, old town!