Day by day I walk down Fleet Street toward Ludgate Hill.

I look once more every morning at that great picture of any religion; I
look at the quiet, soaring, hopeful dome--that little touch of singing
or praying that men have lifted up against heaven. "Will the Dome bring
the Man to me?"

I look up at the machines, strange and eager, hurrying across the
bridge. "Will the Machines bring the Man to me?"

I look in the faces of the crowd hurrying past. "Will the Crowd bring
the Man to me?"

With the picture of my religion--or perhaps three religions or three
stories of religion--I walk on and on through the crowd, past the
railway, past the Cathedral, past the Mansion House, and over the Tower
Bridge. I walk fast and eagerly and blindly, as though a man would walk
away from the world.

Suddenly I find myself, throngs of voices all about me, standing
half-unconsciously by a high iron fence in Bermondsey watching that
smooth asphalt playground where one sees the very dead (for once)
crowded by the living--pushed over to the edges--their gravestones
tilted calmly up against the walls. I stand and look through the pickets
and watch the children run and shout--the little funny, mockingly
dressed, frowzily frumpily happy children, the stored-up sunshine of a
thousand years all shining faintly out through the dirt, out through the
generations in their little faces--"Will the Man come to me out of
these?"