Classic Poem

O, just to count for something in this band
Tossing its arms ever the self-same way
To ply its trade! If one would take my hand,
And look into my eyes but once, and say:
“God speed thee, brother;” then, perchance, all night
My pallet were less narrow, less the noise
Above, below, of curses, and more light
My pale, sick, sordid sorrows. O, a voice
To call my burden sore,—acknowledge me,
Who daily grow weak-hearted!—But they pass,
Enwrapped like me in soulless misery,
On, on, and on—How otherwise? Alas!—
And had I strength out of such life to go,
Not one of these, O God! not one would know!