These words awake the wanderer,
And show the straight and shining Way.
Beneath the windblown, battered boughs,
With dyed leaves desperate to drop,
He pauses to pursue the point.
Is it freedom to unfettered fly,
To hold no hall as holy home?
To love not and unloved live,
But in midnight’s melancholic memory?
The ruled and rooted reside in rest,
Yet he takes tiresome trails to… where? to… whom?
A bell begins its blessings bright,
Its sounded sonnet soothes his soul,
As about him all awakes anew.