Because they are so many and the same,The little houses row on weary row;Because they are so loveless and so lameIt were a bitter thing to tell them so.And ill to laugh at those who hither cameNot without hope and not without a glow,And who, perchance, by sorrow struck or shameNot without tears look back before they go.
Here is no place for laughter nor for blame,And not for tears, since none shall ever knowWhat here is done and suffered, nor proclaimThe end to which these myriad spirits grow.He understands, whose heart rememberethThat here is all the tale of life and death.
