Loneliness

 Now it is Loneliness who comes at night
Instead of Sleep, to sit beside my bed.

Like a tired child I lie and wait her tread,
I watch her softly blowing out the light.

Motionless sitting, neither left or right
She turns, and weary, weary droops her head.

She, too, is old; she, too, has fought the fight.

So, with the laurel she is garlanded.


Through the sad dark the slowly ebbing tide
Breaks on a barren shore, unsatisfied.

A strange wind flows.
.
.
 then silence.
 I am fain
To turn to Loneliness, to take her hand,
Cling to her, waiting, till the barren land
Fills with the dreadful monotone of rain

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