 | The writings of James Russell Lowell |  |
XXIV.
THE STREET.
They pass me by like shadows, crowds on crowds,Dim ghosts of men, that hover to and fro,
Hugging their bodies round them like thin shrouds
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They trampled on their youth, and faith, and love,
They cast their hope of human-kind away,
With Heaven's clear messages they madly strove,
And conquered,—and their spirits turned to clay:
Lo! how they wander round the world, their grave,
Whose ever-gaping maw by such is fed,
Gibbering at living men, and idly rave,
“We, only, truly live, but ye are dead.”
Alas! poor fools, the anointed eye may trace
A dead soul's epitaph in every face!
| The writings of James Russell Lowell | |