Alone. It was the town of Fame,
Wherein are lands of diverse name—
The Saffron East, the Purple West,
Whose walls enclose a Crimson Shame
But hold no Land of Quiet Rest.
Weary I grew and sad, and lame,
Until in scorn I heard one say,
How to the gate there seeking came
A wounded shepherd yesterday.
Painfully at the stroke of dawn