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Poem	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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