'T IS strange to me, who long have seen no face,
That was not like a book, whose every page
I knew by heart, a kindly common-place —
And faithful record of progressive age —
To wander forth, and view an unknown race;
Of all that I have been, to find no trace,
No footstep of my by-gone pilgrimage.
Thousands I pass, and no one stays his pace
To tell me that the day is fair, or rainy —
Each one his object seeks with anxious chase,
And I have not a common hope with any —
Thus like one drop of oil upon a flood,
In uncommunicating solitude —
Single am I amid the countless many.
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