Faces In The Street Poem by Henry Lawson

Faces In The Street

Rating: 3.6



They lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone
That want is here a stranger, and that misery's unknown;
For where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet
My window-sill is level with the faces in the street --
Drifting past, drifting past,
To the beat of weary feet --
While I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.

And cause I have to sorrow, in a land so young and fair,
To see upon those faces stamped the marks of Want and Care;
I look in vain for traces of the fresh and fair and sweet
In sallow, sunken faces that are drifting through the street --
Drifting on, drifting on,
To the scrape of restless feet;
I can sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.

In hours before the dawning dims the starlight in the sky
The wan and weary faces first begin to trickle by,
Increasing as the moments hurry on with morning feet,
Till like a pallid river flow the faces in the street --
Flowing in, flowing in,
To the beat of hurried feet --
Ah! I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.

The human river dwindles when 'tis past the hour of eight,
Its waves go flowing faster in the fear of being late;
But slowly drag the moments, whilst beneath the dust and heat
The city grinds the owners of the faces in the street --
Grinding body, grinding soul,
Yielding scarce enough to eat --
Oh! I sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.

And then the only faces till the sun is sinking down
Are those of outside toilers and the idlers of the town,
Save here and there a face that seems a stranger in the street,
Tells of the city's unemployed upon his weary beat --
Drifting round, drifting round,
To the tread of listless feet --
Ah! My heart aches for the owner of that sad face in the street.

And when the hours on lagging feet have slowly dragged away,
And sickly yellow gaslights rise to mock the going day,
Then flowing past my window like a tide in its retreat,
Again I see the pallid stream of faces in the street --
Ebbing out, ebbing out,
To the drag of tired feet,
While my heart is aching dumbly for the faces in the street.

And now all blurred and smirched with vice the day's sad pages end,
For while the short `large hours' toward the longer `small hours' trend,
With smiles that mock the wearer, and with words that half entreat,
Delilah pleads for custom at the corner of the street --
Sinking down, sinking down,
Battered wreck by tempests beat --
A dreadful, thankless trade is hers, that Woman of the Street.

But, ah! to dreader things than these our fair young city comes,
For in its heart are growing thick the filthy dens and slums,
Where human forms shall rot away in sties for swine unmeet,
And ghostly faces shall be seen unfit for any street --
Rotting out, rotting out,
For the lack of air and meat --
In dens of vice and horror that are hidden from the street.

I wonder would the apathy of wealthy men endure
Were all their windows level with the faces of the Poor?
Ah! Mammon's slaves, your knees shall knock, your hearts in terror beat,
When God demands a reason for the sorrows of the street,
The wrong things and the bad things
And the sad things that we meet
In the filthy lane and alley, and the cruel, heartless street.

I left the dreadful corner where the steps are never still,
And sought another window overlooking gorge and hill;
But when the night came dreary with the driving rain and sleet,
They haunted me -- the shadows of those faces in the street,
Flitting by, flitting by,
Flitting by with noiseless feet,
And with cheeks but little paler than the real ones in the street.

Once I cried: `Oh, God Almighty! if Thy might doth still endure,
Now show me in a vision for the wrongs of Earth a cure.'
And, lo! with shops all shuttered I beheld a city's street,
And in the warning distance heard the tramp of many feet,
Coming near, coming near,
To a drum's dull distant beat,
And soon I saw the army that was marching down the street.

Then, like a swollen river that has broken bank and wall,
The human flood came pouring with the red flags over all,
And kindled eyes all blazing bright with revolution's heat,
And flashing swords reflecting rigid faces in the street.
Pouring on, pouring on,
To a drum's loud threatening beat,
And the war-hymns and the cheering of the people in the street.

And so it must be while the world goes rolling round its course,
The warning pen shall write in vain, the warning voice grow hoarse,
But not until a city feels Red Revolution's feet
Shall its sad people miss awhile the terrors of the street --
The dreadful everlasting strife
For scarcely clothes and meat
In that pent track of living death -- the city's cruel street.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Charlotte Gunther 03 October 2013

i wondered why the poet spent the whole day in his room assigning gloom and doom to all those faces. He didn't know anything about anyone. didn't he have a job, too? guess not. but he had an agenda. nice poem though. i like the rhythm.

9 6 Reply
Kevin Straw 03 October 2012

Lawson's Red Revolution brought a state of misery far more than that of 19th century England, and it added a terror that was absent from that era. He might also have looked up the French revolution as an awful example of what happens when a state collapses. Luckily England had WWII and WWI to deflect the discontent (and killing many of the discontented) , but it was also a society much more ready to solve the problems of the Industrial Revolution. But had either of those wars been lost there might well have been a revolution in England.

9 3 Reply
Peter Stavropoulos 03 October 2013

“Oh, my ways are strange ways and new ways and old ways, And deep ways and steep ways and high ways and low, I’m at home and at ease on a track that I know not, And restless and lost on a road that I know” – Henry Lawson

10 1 Reply
Milica Franchi De Luri 03 October 2009

unnecessary long and boring to read..........

2 9 Reply
Liliana ~el 03 October 2013

Quite interesting. Liked the repetition giving the poem unity. Describing the reality of the people starving, unemployed, and without shelter. Really enjoyed the turn this account took with the spirit of revolution! with rhythm, energy ablaze, and continuing beat; great contrast for this piece.

9 1 Reply
Garry Sharp 15 June 2021

Jean, a few of Henry's poems have varying versions. Some say that when he was desperate for a drink he would sell a poem. Sometimes he would alter an existing poem and give it a new name, others he would add a line.

0 0 Reply
Jean Law 20 February 2021

‘They lie the men who tell us, for reasons of their own.' (Freedom on the Wallaby' Pinchgut Press, p 58) the difference with the reported lyrics in loud decisive tone?

0 0 Reply
Jean Law 20 February 2021

In the book Freedom of the Wallaby, Pinchgut Press, p 58, the opening verse reads

0 0 Reply
Lee Boueri 05 June 2020

I can imagine Lawson sitting in his study in a sunken cottage on Crown st in Sydney's Darlinghurst (where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet) gazing out his window (level with the faces in the street) , Newspaper open on his desk as he pens this gem of a poem.

0 0 Reply
Lee Boueri 05 June 2020

I imagine Lawson sitting in a study in one of those sunken cottages along Crown Street Sydney (where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet) looking out his window (level with the faces in the street) as the city comes to life, a newspaper beside him with political news of the day as he pens this.

0 0 Reply
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Henry Lawson

Henry Lawson

Grenfell, New South Wales
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