Ii

The Wanderer

Have I finished my life, am I done? Is my heart-blood thin and cold, That I gnaw the bones of the town? Am I empty and old?

My flags are the chimneys' grime, Tossed on a languid breeze. Have I dreamed of the roaring rhyme, A storm through the trees?

The snow in the streets is black, Profaned with the city's sin; I know of a star-lit track Where God's hand has been.

Have I finished with snow and sun, With the wind on the open plain, That I starve in the barren town-- Is my life in vain?