The speaker remembers a childhood spent in city streets whose names—Marlborough, Waterloo, Trafalgar—echo old battles. To the child, these grim, narrow streets were not deprived; they were his woods and meadows, his whole sense of spring. Rain on dust, sparrows, shadow: he drank them in because he knew nothing else. Now, as an adult, he feels that early self has nearly vanished, shut behind a creaking door. Yet something survives: a child still walks those war-named streets, hearing his footsteps, wondering at the names, singing under gas lamps, loving the few stars caught between roofs. The mood is wistful and tender, mixing loss with a quiet, vivid sense of what childhood can make of even a hard, brick-and-stone world.
The Streets — Summary
Marlboro' and Waterloo and Trafalgar, Tuileries, Talavera, Valenciennes, Were strange names all, and all familiar;
For down their streets I went, early and late (Is there a street where I have never been Of all those hundreds, narrow, skyless, straight?)--
Early and late, they were my woods and meadows; The rain upon their dust my summer smell; Their scant herb and brown sparrows and harsh shadows
Were all my spring. Was there another spring? I knew their noisy desolation well, Drinking it up as a child drinks everything,
Knowing no other world than brick and stone, With one rich memory of the earth all bright. Now all is fallen into oblivion--
All that I was, in years of school and play, Things that I hated, things that were delight, Are all forgotten, or shut all away
Behind a creaking door that opens slow. But there's a child that walks those streets of war, Hearing his running footsteps as they go
Echoed from house to house, and wondering At Marlboro', Waterloo and Trafalgar; And at night, when the yellow gas lamps fling
Unsteady shadows, singing for company; Yet loving the lighted dark, and any star Caught by sharp roofs in a narrow net of sky.