I hang about the streets all day, br At night I hang about; br I sleep a little when I may, br But rise betimes the morning's scout; br For through the year I always hear br Afar, aloft, a ghostly shout. br br My clothes are worn to threads and loops; br My skin shows here and there ; br About my face like seaweed droops br My tangled beard, my tangled hair; br From cavernous and shaggy brows br My stony eyes untroubled stare. br br I move from eastern wretchedness br Through Fleet Street and the Strand; br And as the pleasant people press br I touch them softly with my hand, br Perhaps I know that still I go br Alive about a living land. br br For far in front the clouds are riven br I hear the ghostly cry, br As if a still voice fell from heaven br To where sea-whelmed the drowned folk lie br In sepulchres no tempest stirs br And only eyeless things pass by. br br In Piccadilly spirits pass: br Oh, eyes and cheeks that glow! br Oh, strength and comeliness! Alas, br The lustrous health is earth I know br From shrinking eyes that recognise br No brother in my rags and woe. br br I know no handicraft, no art, br But I have conquered fate; br For I have chosen the better part, br And neither hope, nor fear, nor hate. br With placid breath on pain and death, br My certain alms, alone I wait. br br And daily, nightly comes the call, br The pale unechoing note, br The faint "Aha!" sent from the wall br Of heaven, but from no ruddy throat br Of human breed or seraph's seed, br A phantom voice that cries by rote.