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 A savage woman screamed at me from a barge: little children began to cry; The untidy, unfinished land began to move: a saw-mill started; A cart rattled down to the wharf, and workmen clanged over the iron foot-bridge; A beautiful old man nodded from the first-story window of a square red house, And a pretty girl came out to hang up clothes in a small delightful garden. O strange motion in the suburb of a County Town: slow, regular movement of the dance of death! No phantoms move in the light: more terrible than phantoms, they are men. Theirs is no romance of great cities, or stupendous crimes; nor do they live on wild poetic moors. Forgotten they live, and forgotten die.