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Title: The Town
Author: David Morton [
More Titles by Morton]
(For Morristown, N. J.)
I
Men loved not Athens in her maiden days
More tenderly than these their tree-lined Town
Which, lacking Muses for a wider praise,
Lives in their hearts in still and sweet renown.
The market square, the wagons in the dawn,
The streets like music when their names are said,
The Sunday spire, the green, untrammelled lawn,--
These be the things on which their hearts are fed.
And one long street climbs slowly to a hill
That lifts her crosses for the Town to see
How sleep those quiet neighbours, townsmen still,
How there is peace for such as weary be ...
And as they come, each like a sleepy guest,
She takes them, one by one, and gives them rest.
II
SUNDAY MORNING
A thoughtful quiet lies upon the street,
There is a hushed suspension on the air,
And the slow bells summon unhurried feet
To dim reclosures kept for praise and prayer.
Drawn blinds have shut the merchant's wares away,
Where two by two the goodly folk go by,
Out of their toilsome days into this day
Of special airs beneath a special sky.
A little while, and all at last are gone;
The streets are stilled of passers up and down;
Only the pealing bells toll on and on,--
Till these, too, cease, and all the silent Town
In street, and roof, and spire, and grassy sod,
Lies steeped in sunlight, smiling back at God.
III
IN APRIL
The way of Spring with little steepled towns
Is such a shy, transforming sorcery
Of special lights and swift, incredible crowns,
That grave men wonder how such things may be.
No friendly spire, no daily-trodden way
But somehow alters in the April air,
Grown dearer still, on some enchanted day,
For shining garments they have come to wear.
The way the spring comes to our Town is such
That something quickens in the hearts of men,
Turning them lovers at its subtle touch,
Till they must lift their heads again--again--
As lovers do, with frank, adoring eyes,
Where the long street of lifted steeples lies.
IV
WATCHERS
I think those townsmen, sleeping on the hill,
Are never careless how the Town may fare,
But jealous of her quiet beauty still,
Her ways and worth are things for which they care:
For shuttered house, and gateways and the grass,
And how the streets, tree-bordered all and cool,
Are still a pleasant way for folks to pass:
Men at their work and children home from school.
I cannot doubt that they are pleased to see
Their planted elms grown dearer year by year:
Their living witness unto such as we ...
And they are less regretful when they hear
Some name we speak, some tale we tell again,
Of days when they were warm and living men.
V
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
These morning streets, the lawns of windy grass,
And spires that wear the sunlight like a crown,
The square where busy, happy people pass:
The living soul that lights the little Town,--
These have been shining beauty for my mind,
And joy, and friendship, and a tale to tell,
And these have been a presence that is kind,
A quiet music and a healing well.
Men who were lovers in the olden time,
Who praised the beauty of bright hair and brow,
And left a little monument of rhyme,--
Wrought not more tenderly than I would, now,
To turn some changing syllables of praise
For her whose quiet beauty fills my days.
VI
THE TOWNSMAN
Here would I leave some subtle part of me,
A moving presence through the friendly Town,
Abiding still, and happy still to be
Where thoughtful men pass daily up and down;--
An essence stirring on the ways they fare,
Haunting the drifted sunlight where they go,
Till one might mark a Something on the air,
Most near and kind--though why, he would not know.
Happy, if it may chance, where two shall meet,
Pausing to pass the friendly, idle word,
In the hushed twilight of the evening street,
I might stand by, a secret, silent Third,--
Most happy listener, if I hear them tell
How, with the Town--and them--it still is well.
[The end]
David Morton's poem: Town
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