Loneliness is an old man alone--
Long past fourscore, the venerable ancient
Lived in silence of solitude.
Forty years of loneliness,
Forth years since he had placed his Marie
To rest beneath the great pine she loved,
Under whose sheltering arms
The two had often sat together
In the quietude of companionship.
Compassion stirred the apathetic embers of my heart:
Kindled, I visited him.
"Lonely?" He echoed my question--
His eyes lifted to mine were like April violets
Beneath the blossom-white snow of his hair;
And his voice held the lyrics of a little river
Released from the boundaries of winter--
"No, my dear, not lonely,
Today the psalmist David has comforted me."
