He goes his way through Roosevelt Street
At night and morn, nor turns his head
When past him comes the sound of feet—
Of ghostly feet that long ago
In life had made his pulses beat.
For, mark you, both are dead, and so
Small wonder is it nought should pass
Betwixt them in the street, I trow.
Yet still they move with that huge mass
Of life unpurposeful that reaps