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!