  On the long dusty ribbon of the long city street, The pageant of life is passing me on multitudinous feet, With a word here of the hills, and a song there of the sea, And—the great movement changes—the pageant passes me. Faces—passionate faces—of men I may not know, They haunt me, burn me to the heart, as I turn aside to go: The king’s face and the cur’s face, and the face of the stuffed swine, They are passing, they are passing, their eyes look into mine. I never can tire of the music of the noise of many feet, The thrill of the blood pulsing, the tick of the heart’s beat, Of the men many as sands, of the squadrons ranked and massed Who are passing, changing always, and never have changed or passed. |
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