Transients

They are ashamed who leave so soon The Inn of Grief—who thought to stay Through many a faithful sun and moon, Yet tarry but a day. Shame-faced I watch them pay the score, Then straight with eager footsteps press Where waits beyond its rose-wreathed door The Inn of Happiness. I wish I did not know that here, Here too—where they have dreamed to stay So many and many a golden year They lodge but for a day.