76
SONGS OF THE ROAD
So I hear it rising, falling,
Till it dies away once more,
And I hear the costers calling
'Mid the weary London roar.
Who shall pity then the lameness,
Which still holds me from the ground?
Who commiserate the sameness
Of the scene that girds me round?
Though I lie a broken wreck,
Though I seem to want for all,
Still the world is at my beck
And the ages at my call.
