HE stands, a patient figure, where the crowd
Heaves to and fro beside him. In his ears
All day the Fair goes thundering, and he hears
In darkness, as a dead man in his shroud.
Patient he stands, with age and sorrow bowed,
And holds a piteous hat of ancient yean;
And in his face and gesture there appears
The desperate humbleness of poor men proud.

What thoughts are his, as, with the inward sight,
He sees those mirthful faces pass him by?
Is the long darkness darker for that light.
The misery deeper when that joy is nigh?
Patient, alone, he stands from morn to night,
Pleading in his reproachful misery.