Not in the mountain-passes, where the air
Sobs low, and life is like a long despair—
Thy home is not in these, O Solitude!
But in the busy concourse, long and loud,
Where not one pulse of human sympathy
Beats through the grasping spirits of the crowd—
Where each is rapt in snatching greedily
His brother’s portion—’neath a shallow shroud,
We know thy truest haunt, and weep for thee.
Arthur L. Salmon.