BENEATH this narrow jostling street, 
 Unruffled by the noise of feet, 
Like a slow organ-note I hear 
The pulses of the great world beat. 
 
Unseen beneath the city?s show 
Through this aorta ever flow 
The currents of the universe? 
A thousand pulses throbbing low! 
 
Unheard beneath the pavement?s din 
Unknown magicians sit within 
Dim caves, and weave life into words 
On patient looms that spin and spin. 
 
There, uninspired, yet with the dower 
Of mightier mechanic power, 
Some bent, obscure Euripides 
Builds the loud drama of the hour! 
 
There, from the gaping presses hurled, 
A thousand voices, passion-whirled, 
With throats of steel vociferate 
The incessant story of the world! 
 
So through this artery from age 
To age the tides of passion rage, 
The swift historians of each day 
Flinging a world upon a page! 
 
And then I pause and gaze my fill 
Where cataracts of traffic spill 
Their foam into the Circus. Lo! 
Look up, the crown on Ludgate Hill! 
 
Remote from all the city?s moods, 
In high, untroubled solitudes, 
Like an old Buddha swathed in dream, 
St. Paul?s above the city broods!