THE low line of the walls that lie outspread Miles on long miles, the fog and smoke and slime. The wharves and ships with flags of every clime, The domes and steeples rising overhead! It is not these. Rather is it the tread Of the million heavy feet that keep sad time To heavy thoughts, the want that mothers crime, The weary toiling for a bitter bread, The perishing of poets for renown, The shriek of shame from the concealing waves. Ah, me! how many heartbeats day by day Go to make up the life of the vast town! O myriad dead in unremembered graves! O torrent of the living down Broadway! |