The Drunkards in the street are calling one another, br Heeding not the night-wind, great of heart and gay, — br Publicans and wantons — br Calling, laughing, calling, br While the Spirit bloweth Space and Time away. br br Why should I feel the sobbing, the secrecy, the glory, br This comforter, this fitful wind divine? br I the cautious Pharisee, the scribe, the whited sepulchre — br I have no right to God, he is not mine. br br Within their gutters, drunkards dream of Hell. br I say my prayers by my white bed to-night, br With the arms of God about me, with the angels singing, singing br Until the grayness of my soul grows white.