Loneliness

In the stiff brocade
of spinsterhood,
she sits on the edge of a dream--
not of the warp and woof of life
but of fantasy--
with eyes too bright and eager
and lips too smiling,
looking into nothingness
to conceal her loneliness.

Lonely Homestead

The hills remember songs our father sang
When riding range before the break of day.
The winding trails where happy laughter rang
Are silent now, yet all along the way
The same wild roses, radiant and gay,
Hold modest faces to the sun. The sound
Of playing children in the twilight's gray
Is heard no more. Nostalgic meadow-ground
Awaits with hope for eager steps to bound
Across its greening carpet to make sweet
Its longing hours. The loved old home is gowned
In loneliness and yearns for children's feet
To skip across its floors. The years speed fast
Leaving the homestead dreaming of the past.

Even in Silence

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."