Now it is Loneliness who comes at
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
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
Breaks on a barren shore, unsatisfied.
A strange wind flows… then silence. I am
To turn to Loneliness, to take her hand,
Cling to her, waiting, till the barren
Fills with the dreadful monotone of rain
