A Side Street

On the warm Sunday afternoons

And every evening in the Spring and Summer

When the night hurries the late home-corner

And the air grows softer, and scraps of tunes

Float from the open windows and jar

Against the voices of children and the hum of a car;

When the city noises commingle and melt

With a restless something half-seen, half-felt—

I see them always there,

Upon the low, smooth wall before the church;

That row of little girls who sit and stare

Like sparrows on a granite perch.

They come in twittering couples or walk alone

To their gray bough of stone,

Sometimes by twos and threes, sometimes as many as five—

But always they sit there on the narrow coping

Bright-eyed and solemn, scarcely hoping

To see more than what is merely moving and alive. . .

They hear the couples pass; the lisp of happy feet

Increases and the night grows suddenly sweet. . .

Before the quiet church that smells of death

They sit.

And Life sweeps past them with a rushing breath

And reaches out and plucks them by the hand

And calls them boldly, whispering to each

In some strange speech

They tremble to but cannot understand.

It thrills and troubles them, as one by one,

The days run off like water through a sieve;

While, with a gaze as candid as the sun,

Poignant and puzzled and inquisitive,

They come and sit,—

A part of life and yet apart from it.