He is no morbid misanthrope
With heart wrapped in a shroud,
Although he walks with aimless hope
Among the city crowd.

He's not the only passer there
Who drinks the lonely gall,
For you will find them everywhere
Between the curb and wall.

No friendly hands his fingers press
With warm fraternal touch,
And sensitised by loneliness
He sees and hears too much.

A dress like one his mother wore,
An old song in the street,
A face like one he loved of yore,
Brings memories sad and sweet.

A baby's face o'er shoulders seen
His hungry heart will stir
To thoughts of things that might have been
With love and home and her.

And then he scans each passing face
With sad eyes keen and kind,
But still the plea for answering grace
Is lost upon the blind.

He loathes the soulless painted face
So dear to soulless men,
And scorns the artificial grace
That marks the courtesan.

Little she knows of what he craves
To lift his soul above
The gloom that hangs o'er living graves:
A woman's priceless love.

And so he seeks what oft beguiled
His thoughts from things that clog;
The favour of a gutter child,
The friendship of a dog.

Oh woman! whose uplifting power
Is first in heaven's plan,
From out your soul-redeeming dower
Enrich the lonely man.