Beyond the Last Lamp
While rain, with eve in partnership,Descended darkly, drip, drip, drip,Beyond the last lone lamp I passedWalking slowly, whispering sadly,Two linked loiterers, wan, downcast:Some heavy thought constrained each face,And blinded them to time and place.
The pair seemed lovers, yet absorbedIn mental scenes no longer orbedBy love’s young rays. Each countenanceAs it slowly, as it sadlyCaught the lamplight’s yellow glanceHeld in suspense a miseryAt things which had been or might be.
When I retrod that watery waySome hours beyond the droop of day,Still I found pacing there the twainJust as slowly, just as sadly,Heedless of the night and rain.One could but wonder who they wereAnd what wild woe detained them there.
Though thirty years of blur and blotHave slid since I beheld that spot,And saw in curious converse thereMoving slowly, moving sadlyThat mysterious tragic pair,Its olden look may linger on—All but the couple; they have gone.
Whither? Who knows, indeed . . . And yetTo me, when nights are weird and wet,Without those comrades there at trystCreeping slowly, creeping sadly,That lone lane does not exist.There they seem brooding on their pain,And will, while such a lane remain.
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