The Wanderer

There is nobody on the road
   But I,
And no beseeming abode
   I can try
For shelter, so abroad
   I must lie.



The stars feel not far up,
   And to be
The lights by which I sup
   Glimmeringly,
Set out in a hollow cup
   Over me.
They wag as though they were
   Panting for joy
Where they shine, above all care,
   And annoy,
And demons of despair -
   Life's alloy.
Sometimes outside the fence
   Feet swing past,
Clock-like, and then go hence,
   Till at last
There is a silence, dense,
   Deep, and vast.
A wanderer, witch-drawn
   To and fro,
To-morrow, at the dawn,
   On I go,
And where I rest anon
   Do not know!
Yet it's meet--this bed of hay
   And roofless plight;
For there's a house of clay,
   My own, quite,
To roof me soon, all day
   And all night.