Who bore me gifts of attar and of myrrh,

And leaves of roses delicate that were

Sprung from a garden-close in far Cathay;

While I, unheeding, let them pass their way

Nor cared for all the gifts they might confer,

Watching in vain for one dear loiterer,

Who never dreamed adown my path to stray.

And now out in the lonely road I stand,

Where echoes drearily the ceaseless tread

Of stranger footsteps, slow and burdensome—

I am forgot and empty is each hand,

Save for the dust of roses witherèd,

Yet still I wait for you who never come.

A Postlude

If only in your life to live, might I

Perchance those broken chords with my own meet,

Though quite imperfect, yet but thus to try

Were oh, so wondrous sweet.

Not the broad high-roads which you would have trod,

A lonely wanderer these may not essay,

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