I am driven everywhere from a clinging home,

O autumn eves! and I ween’d that you would yet

have made, when your smouldering dwindled to odorous
fume,

close room for my heart, where I might crouch and dream

of days and ways I had trod, and look with regret

on the darkening homes of men and the window-gleam,

and forget the morrows that threat and the unknown way.

But a bitter wind came out of the yellow-pale west

and my heart is shaken and fill’d with its triumphing cry:

You shall find neither home nor rest; for ever you roam

with stars as they drift and wilful fates of the sky!