(For S. M. L.)
I like to look at the blossomy track of the moon upon the sea,
But it isn’t half so fine a sight as Main Street used to be
When it all was covered over with a couple of feet of snow,
And over the crisp and radiant road the ringing sleighs would go.
Now, Main Street bordered with autumn leaves, it
was a pleasant thing,
And its gutters were gay with dandelions early in the Spring;
I like to think of it white with frost or dusty in the heat,
Because I think it is humaner than any other street.
A city street that is busy and wide is ground by
a thousand wheels,
And a burden of traffic on its breast is all it ever feels:
It is dully conscious of weight and speed and of work that never
But it cannot be human like Main Street, and recognise its friends.
There were only about a hundred teams on Main Street
in a day,
And twenty or thirty people, I guess, and some children out to play.
And there wasn’t a wagon or buggy, or a man or a girl or a boy
That Main Street didn’t remember, and somehow seem to enjoy.
The truck and the motor and trolley car and the
They make the weary city street reverberate with pain:
But there is yet an echo left deep down within my heart
Of the music the Main Street cobblestones made beneath a butcher’s
God be thanked for the Milky Way that runs across
That’s the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die.
Some folks call it a Silver Sword, and some a Pearly Crown,
But the only thing I think it is, is Main Street, Heaventown.