The City Dead-House

By the city dead-house by the gate, As idly sauntering wending my way from the clangor, I curious pause, for lo, an outcast form, a poor dead prostitute brought, Her corpse they deposit unclaim’d, it lies on the damp brick pavement, The divine woman, her body, I see the body, I look on it alone, That house once full of passion and beauty, all else I notice not, Nor stillness so cold, nor running water from faucet, nor odors morbific impress me, But the house alone⁠—that wondrous house⁠—that delicate fair house⁠—that ruin! That immortal house more than all the rows of dwellings ever built! Or white-domed capitol with majestic figure surmounted, or all the old high-spired cathedrals, That little house alone more than them all⁠—poor, desperate house! Fair, fearful wreck⁠—tenement of a soul⁠—itself a soul, Unclaim’d, avoided house⁠—take one breath from my tremulous lips, Take one tear dropt aside as I go for thought of you,