THE WANDERER

There is nobody on the road

But I,

And no beseeming abode

I can try

For shelter, so abroad

I must lie.

The stars feel not far up,

And to be

The lights by which I sup

Glimmeringly,

Set out in a hollow cup

Over me.

They wag as though they were

Panting for joy

Where they shine, above all care,

And annoy,

And demons of despair -

Life's alloy.

Sometimes outside the fence

Feet swing past,

Clock-like, and then go hence,

Till at last

There is a silence, dense,

Deep, and vast.

A wanderer, witch-drawn

To and fro,

To-morrow, at the dawn,

On I go,

And where I rest anon

Do not know!

Yet it's meet — this bed of hay

And roofless plight;

For there's a house of clay,

My own, quite,

To roof me soon, all day

And all night.