Page:The town down the river; a book of poems.djvu/96

 Why will he not be where he is, And not with me? The hours that are my life are mine, not his,— Or used to be.

What numerous imps invisible Has he at hand, Far-flying and forlorn as what they tell At his command?

What hold of weirdness or of worth Can he possess, That he may speak from anywhere on earth His loneliness?

Shall I be caught and held again In the old net?— He brought a sorry sunbeam with him then, But it beams yet.