Surging on in ceaseless shoals
Thousands of immortal souls,
Wave on wave of restless life
Crested rough with selfish strife,-
What a cavalcade comes nigh
In this crowd of passers by!

O the sorrows, pains, and cares,-
O the troubles, sins, and snares,-
O the histories past belief
Piled with wrong and soak'd in grief,-
O the hidden woes that lie
In this crowd of passers by!

Watch the faces as they pass;
What a strangely changeful mass,-
Business, pleasure, duty, sin,
War without, or peace within,
Glooms or gladdens every eye
In this crowd of passers by.

There, is vice and wanton youth,-
There, contented worth and truth,-
There, the sons of toil and skill,-
And the thousands gather still
- Ah! poor monad, what am I
In this crowd of passers by?

Each of all the multitude
Has his evil and his good;
Every one his hopes and fears,
All alike their joys and tears;
All must suffer, all must die
In this crowd of passers by!

Craving body, yearning soul,
Each is to himself a whole;
And how little any cares
How his fainting brother fares;
And how frequent is the sigh
In this crowd of passers by!

Yet as thus I move along
Carried onward by the throng,
In a solitude I seem
Walking in a peopled dream,
Where around me phantoms fly
In this crowd of passers by.

All alone I stand aside
Listening to the human tide,
Till my shuddering spirit hears,
Wailing down the gulph of years,
An exceeding bitter cry
From that crowd of passers by.