Part 2 — THE LONELY ROAD

I think thou waitest, Love, beyond the Gate— Eager, with wind-stirred ripples in thy hair; I have not found thee, and the hour is late, And harsh the weight I bear.

Far have I sought, and flung my wealth of years Like a young traveler, gay at careless inns— See how the wine-stain whitens 'neath the tears My burden wins!

And wilt thou know me, Love, with bended back, Or wilt thou scorn me, in so drear a guise? I have a wealth of sorrows in my pack, One lonely prize—

Thy dream—and dross of sin.... O, dim the fields— I may not find thee in so dark a land— Yet I await what hope the turning yields And beg with empty hand.

Kenneth Rand [1891-