THE VAGABOND
Your arms have held me till they seemed my home.
Your heart denies me; and the spells I weave
Are powerless to hold you. You must roam,
And I must, grieving, hide the thing I grieve.
Oh, love that does not love me, will there come
No time when I am all too dear to leave?
Is life so rich without me? Will there be
No ache of loneliness? No sudden sting
Of loss—of longing? Will your memory
Dwell on no passionate, sweet, familiar thing,
Soft touch or whispered word? Are you so free
From any ties but those new days may bring?
So much I miss you that I do not dare
To let my heart turn backward, nor my eyes
Search the wide future that is swept so bare
Of all I coveted. Yet deeplier lies
Than any misery of dull despair
The fear that you may some day come to prize
The things I stand for, when I am not there
To fill your needs with all my sympathies.
M. M.