And now out in the lonely road I stand,
Where echoes drearily the ceaseless tread
Of stranger footsteps, slow and burdensome—
I am forgot and empty is each hand,
Save for the dust of roses witherèd,
Yet still I wait for you who never come.
A Postlude
If only in your life to live, might I
Perchance those broken chords with my own meet,
Though quite imperfect, yet but thus to try