So tired, and fearful of growing old.
Pity the people in the grey street
Before the dawn trooping with listless feet
Down to their work in the dust and the heat,
For a little bread and a little meat.
Pity the criminal sentenced to die,
Loving life so, with the world in his eye,
In his ears and his heart, with the passionate cry
Of love that will call when he may not reply.
Pity them all, the imperative faces