They crush together—a rustling heap of flesh—

Of more than flesh, a heap of souls; and then

      They part, enmesh,

   And crush together again,

Like the pink petals of a too sanguine rose

   Frightened shut just when it blows.

Though all alike in their tinsel livery,

And indistinguishable at a sweeping glance,

      They muster, maybe,

   As lives wide in irrelevance;

A world of her own has each one underneath,

   Detached as a sword from its sheath.

Daughters, wives, mistresses; honest or false, sold, bought;

Hearts of all sizes; gay, fond, gushing, or penned,

      Various in thought

      Of lover, rival, friend;

Links in a one-pulsed chain, all showing one smile,

   Yet severed so many a mile!