And nowhere is a hiding-place;
Before, behind, on either side,
The surging masses press, divide;
Behind, before, with rhythmic beat,
Is heard the tread of marching feet;
To left, to right, they urge, they fare,
And touch us here, and touch us there.
Hold back your garment as you will,
The crowding world will rub it still.
Then, since such contact needs must be,