Scudder Middleton

I AM the lonely man the crowds pass by;

I am the listener in the dim-lit room above the street;

I am he who waits and knows not why.

O City, have you no gift for me?

Have you no healing word to speak,

No voice of all your many voices I can understand?

I have come a long way over roads that wounded;

I entered your streets with a dream in my breast.

Be not cruel, for I came to love you:

Show me a flower or the face of a friend!