As I walked through London, <br />The fresh wound burning in my breast, <br />As I walked through London, <br />Longing to have forgotten, to harden my heart, and to rest, <br />A sudden consolation, a softening light <br />Touched me: the streets alive and bright, <br />With hundreds each way thronging, on their tide <br />Received me, a drop in the stream, unmarked, unknown. <br />And to my heart I cried: <br />Here can thy trouble find shelter, thy wound be eased! <br />For see, not thou alone, <br />But thousands, each with his smart, <br />Deep--hidden, perchance, but felt in the core of the heart! <br />And as to a sick man's feverish veins <br />The full sponge warmly pressed, <br />Relieves with its burning the burning of forehead and hands, <br />So, I, to my aching breast, <br />Gathered the griefs of those thousands, and made them my own; <br />My bitterest pains <br />Merged in a tenderer sorrow, assuaged and appeased.<br /><br />Robert Laurence Binyon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/as-i-walked-through-london/
