Hazel Hall imagines a speaker listening from inside a room to the endless sound of feet passing on the street below. Those footsteps become a kind of invasion: they beat against her attention all day, all year, all life, wearing her down like weather battering grass. She addresses the feet directly, blaming them for stealing her calm and replacing it with their dull, repetitive rhythm. Their noise is so constant that it frightens her dreams and leaves no space for her own thoughts or desires. There is a strong sense of confinement — the speaker seems unable to join the world outside, only to hear it move past. The poem’s mood is weary and claustrophobic, mixing resentment with resignation. The feet, for all their restless motion, are also mindless, driven only toward the grave, which makes the speaker’s forced dependence on them feel even more bitter.
Feet — Summary
Feet, I am weary of your beat; All day, all year, all life you pass Below me on the street, Driven upon my hearing as the grass Before wild rain and sleet.
You snatch up in your tidal tone The reaching rhythms of my peace And substitute your drone. Until intimidated dreams release The visions they have known.
Feet, I am weary of your stave — The little course your sounds pursue — Weary that I must waive My reaches in subservience to you, Who seek only a grave.