Parent and Child
Often of an evening I take the air
And linger on the bridge by the Isle of Dogs,
And sometimes see
The swan-like shape of the ship that brought me hither.
Often since then that ship has gone
To the land from which it brought me;
And on each voyage my heart accompanies it.
Should I some day in person journey with it,
My honourable father would welcome his little son.
He would not see this worn and tattered one,
This lean and sorrowful son of the waterside.
He would not see this parchment face,
This figure without lustre.
He would see his little son who left him long ago;
For love would brush away the husk of years,
And leave a little child.
Of Worship and Conduct
At the corner of the Causeway on every seventh evening
Gathers the band of Salvation Army,
Making big noise of Washed-in-Blood-of-Lamb.
At temple in East India Dock Road
Men gather in white clothes, and sing,
And march with candles and pray to Lady.
At shop in Pennyfields, many times a day,
This person pays respect to Big Man Joss,
And burns to him prayer-papers and punk-sticks.
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