Pity me not.
I’m walking the way I chose —
alone.
If never there comes one
knowing enough to come,
if never false
gives way to what is true,
I’ll be.
Autumn may fall upon my soul
and find me . . . me,
and none beside.
If Winter saw me leading one
blind and free of thought,
in shame I’d cry, and drop her hand,
and wish I were only I.

