The Superfluous Woman

Ghosts crying down the vistas of the years, Recalling words Whose echoes long have died, And kind moss grown Over the sharp and blood-bespattered stones Which cut our feet upon the ancient ways. But who will look for my coming? Long busy days where many meet and part; Crowded aside Remembered hours of hope; And city streets Grown dark and hot with eager multitudes Hurrying homeward whither respite waits. But who will seek me at nightfall? Light fading where the chimneys cut the sky; Footsteps that pass, Nor tarry at my door. And far away, Behind the row of crosses, shadows black Stretch out long arms before the smouldering sun. But who will give me my children?