There is nobody on the road
  But I,
And no beseeming abode
  I can try
For shelter, so abroad
  I must lie.
The stars feel not far up,
  And to be
The lights by which I sup
  Glimmeringly,
Set out in a hollow cup
  Over me.
They wag as though they were
  Panting for joy
Where they shine, above all care,
  And annoy,
And demons of despair -
  Life’s alloy.
Sometimes outside the fence
  Feet swing past,
Clock-like, and then go hence,
  Till at last
There is a silence, dense,
  Deep, and vast.
A wanderer, witch-drawn
  To and fro,
To-morrow, at the dawn,
  On I go,
And where I rest anon
  Do not know!
Yet it’s meet - this bed of hay
  And roofless plight;
For there’s a house of clay,
  My own, quite,
To roof me soon, all day
  And all night.
