Roads.

Broad roads there are, and white, and concrete-paved,
High along ridges, gleaming in the sun,
Noisy roads, important roads, and clean, for there
The wheels of the wealthy run.
Down in the valleys there crawl hot streets,
Narrow and bent like a beckoning hand;
Hemmed in with hovels and crumbling shops
Almost too old to stand.
I know that they are dirty, sordid, mean,
That ugly things are done behind their walls,
And yet the moon and stars are silver there
When holy evening falls.
And clean white roads have map-directed ends,
But ugly, crooked lanes may hold surprise,
For many a side-street climbs to look into
The City's sparkling eyes.
And sometimes a wretched shack can dumbly show
A plot of tulips shining to the sun, And even there Sleep's opiate slowly stills
The voices one by one.

—Christine Comber.

* * *