The waves of busy life that whirling go
Through thy long streets, O city of my birth,
With all their sounds of sorrow or of mirth
Move me no more than does the dreary flow
Of heavy Lethe, stealing thick and slow,
Before the eyes of some new ghost of earth,
Drowsy with recent death. I see no worth
In all the changes of the weary show.
I strain my eyes; I cannot catch her face;
I stretch my arms; all empty they remain;
I bend my ear, O light as summer rain
Was that dim step now silent; and the place
Grows a strange desert: so I pray for grace,
And falling prone, I try to die again.