Night; and the street a corpse beneath the moon, Upon the threshold of the jubilant day That was to follow soon; Thickened with inundating dark 'Gainst which the drowning lamps kept struggle; pole And plank cast rigid shadows; 'twas a stark Thing waiting for its soul, The bones of the preluded pomp. I saw In the cloud-sullied moon a pale array, A lengthened apparition, slowly draw; And as it came, Brake all the street in phantom flame Of flag and flower and hanging, shadowy show Of the to-morrow's glories, as might suit A pageant of the dead; and spectral bruit I heard, where stood the dead to watch the dead, The long Victorian line that passed with printless tread. First went the holy poets…
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