To Charlie Chaplin

Now that we have no need to huddle
For the patchwork warmth of the city's walls,
And no echo answers from the alley corners,
And in the cold hard steps no cradling curve,
The streets themselves have no safe place
For a stray heart.

But we, who have more resource than our hearts,
And you, whose eyes make mouths at all our words,
What fragile life the morning gives our world,
How soon startled, how fast flies
From looks to where our sleepy conscience lies,
Curled like a cat in cold Liberty's lap.

With what fine rags we dress ourselves by day,
With what sad dreams that linger on by noon,
Of what we might yet be, how much, how soon,
With nothing but one sixpence left to give,
Souls strong enough to shelter, light enough to love
The little thing we lead to rest
In our bright breast.

Dimly through dust-clouds the horses have forgotten,
And the wild wagons rumble into dusk,
With the shadow and the silence,
And the trundle and the tatters,
All that sunset and mad violins,
And the circus, but what matters?

Tomorrow the birds will sing.

Thomas Clark