Ah, many were they then of yesterday,
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.