He hurries past the window-pane,
And sees the world with busy eyes;
No time for joy, no room for pain,
Yet something in him silent lies.
The faces pass in endless throng,
The bells ring out, the engines roar;
But he, absorbed, moves swift along,
Unnoted as he threads the floor.
And still, beneath his quiet guise,
A thought, a dream, a plan may lie;
Unseen, unknown to common eyes,
Yet shaping life as hours go by.