Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By Elizabeth AkersAllen553 The Last Landlord
Y
Of the tenant’s annual quest,
You who long for peace and rest,
And the quietest of neighbors,
You may find them, if you will,
In the city on the hill.
All the pleasant dwellings there;
He has tenants everywhere,—
Every day the throng increases;
None may tell their number, yet
He has mansions still to let.
Gentlest of all landlords he;
And his numerous tenantry
Never lack for food or raiment.
Sculptured portal, grassy roof,
All alike are trouble-proof.
Never one is ill at ease;
There are neither locks nor keys,
Yet no robber breaks or enters;
Not a dweller bolts his door,
Fearing for his treasure-store.
Troubles those who dwell therein;
Never toil’s distracting din,
Stroke of axe, nor blow of hammer;
Crimson clover sheds its sweets
Even in the widest streets.
Suffers illness or decline;
There no suffering children pine;
There comes never want nor hunger;
Woe and need no longer reign;
Poverty forgets its pain.
Stay forevermore outside;
By the hearts which there abide
Wrong, privation, doubt, and worry
Are forgotten quite, or seem
Only like a long-past dream.
Enters there, and never heard
Is a sharp or cruel word;
No unworthy thought or action,
Purpose or intent of ill
Knows the city on the hill.
Out of date, nor needs repairs;
There intrude no sordid cares;
There are neither rent nor taxes;
And no vexed and burdened brain
Reckons either loss or gain.
You whom, since your being’s dawn,
With the stern command “Move on!”
Ruthless Fate has tracked forever,
Here at last your footsteps stay
With no dread of moving-day!