THE INN

We take our pack, and jog our way again
Towards the windy sunset and the night;
The inn is now behind us, out of sight,
Showing no welcome shine of windowpane,
But dark and silent standing by the way
As we go forward, seeing mile on mile
Sink out of sight—just for a little while
We rested, in the middle of the day.

Is there an end at last, and shall we reach,
By the faint glimmer of new-risen stars,
Our house at last, and find the heart-repose
Which is the ultimate desire of each
Poor traveller—ah! shall they drop the bars,
And the doors open? Dear my friend, who knows?