WHAT does it mean? Tired, angry, and ill at ease,

No man, woman, or child alive could please

Me now. And yet I almost dare to laugh

Because I sit and frame an epitaph-

“Here lies all that no one loved of him

And that loved no one”. Then in a trice that whim

Has wearied. But, though I am like a river

At fall of evening when it seems that never

Has the sun lighted it or warmed it, while

Cross breezes cut the surface to a file,

This heart, some fraction of me, happily

Floats through a window even now to a tree

Down in the misting, dim-lit, quiet vale;

Not like a pewit that returns to wail

For something it has lost, but like a dove

That slants unanswering to its home and love.

There I find rest, and through the dusk air

Flies what yet lives in me. Beauty is there.