The City Dead-House

BY the City Dead-House, by the gate,
As idly sauntering, wending my way from the clangor,
I curious pause–for lo! an outcast form, a poor dead prostitute
brought;
Her corpse they deposit unclaim’d–it lies on the damp brick
pavement;
The divine woman, her body–I see the Body–I look on it alone,
That house once full of passion and beauty–all else I notice not;
Nor stillness so cold, nor running water from faucet, nor odors
morbific impress me;
But the house alone–that wondrous house–that delicate fair house–
that ruin!
That immortal house, more than all the rows of dwellings ever built!
Or white-domed Capitol itself, with majestic figure surmounted–or
all the old high-spired cathedrals;

That little house alone, more than them all–poor, desperate house!
Fair, fearful wreck! tenement of a Soul! itself a Soul!
Unclaim’d, avoided house! take one breath from my tremulous lips;
Take one tear, dropt aside as I go, for thought of you,
Dead house of love! house of madness and sin, crumbled! crush’d!
House of life–erewhile talking and laughing–but ah, poor house!
dead, even then;
Months, years, an echoing, garnish’d house–but dead, dead, dead.