General William Booth enters into Heaven, and other poems/The Drunkards in the Street

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THE Drunkards in the street are calling
    one another,
Heeding not the night-wind, great of heart and
Publicans and wantons—
Calling, laughing, calling,
While the Spirit bloweth Space and Time away.

Why should I feel the sobbing, the secrecy,
    the glory,
This comforter, this fitful wind divine?
I the cautious Pharisee, the scribe, the whited
I have no right to God, he is not mine.

Within their gutters, drunkards dream of Hell.
I say my prayers by my white bed to-night,
With the arms of God about me, with the
    angels singing, singing
Until the grayness of my soul grows white.