In the third-class seat sat the journeying boy,

   And the roof-lamp’s oily flame

Played down on his listless form and face,

Bewrapt past knowing to what he was going,

      Or whence he came.

In the band of his hat the journeying boy

   Had a ticket stuck; and a string

Around his neck bore the key of his box,

That twinkled gleams of the lamp’s sad beams

      Like a living thing.

What past can be yours, O journeying boy

   Towards a world unknown,

Who calmly, as if incurious quite

On all at stake, can undertake

      This plunge alone?

Knows your soul a sphere, O journeying boy,

   Our rude realms far above,

Whence with spacious vision you mark and mete

This region of sin that you find you in,

      But are not of?