The sweet maid, Day, has pillowed her head
On the breast of her dusky lover. Night.
The sun has made her a couch of red,
And woven a cover of dim twilight;
And the lover kisses the maiden's brow,
As low on her couch, she sleepeth now.
Here at my window, above the street,
I sit, as the day lies in repose;
And I list to the ceaseless tramp of feet,
And I watch this human tide that flows
Upward and downward, to and fro,
As the waves of an ocean, ebb and flow.
Over and over the busy town;
Hither and thither, through all the day,
One goes up, and another down,
Each in his own allotted way.
Strangers and kinsmen pass and meet,
And jar, and jostle upon the street.
People that never met before,
People that never will meet again;
A careless glance of the eye, no more,
And both are lost in the sea of men.
Strangers divided by miles, in heart,
Under my window meet and part.
But whether their feet pass up, or down,
Over the river, east or west;
Whether it's in or out of the town,
To a haunt of sin, or a home of rest,--
We are journeying to a common goal--
There is one _last_ point for every soul.
Strangers and kinsmen, friend and foe,
Whether their aims are great or small,
Whether their paths lie high or low--
There is one last resting place for all.
Then upward, and onward, go surging by
Under my window--you all must die.