Wild is the tumult of the long grey street,
O, is it never silent from the tramping of their feet?
Here, Jesus, is Thy triumph, and here the world's defeat,
For from here all peace has gone.
There's a stranger thing than beauty in the ceaseless city's breast,
In the throbbing of its fever—and the wind is in the west,
And the rain is driving forward where there is no rest,
For the Lord is marching on.
December 1912
50
