Of all his vain regrets in counting why
the wheeling dust at heel knew more direction,
a truer course than he, his desperate eye
could find none leering from his own reflection,
none mocking him from routes not chosen, nor
did any emptiness of pocket swallow
heart along with hands, and through no door
of chance or power did he chafe to follow,
or so he thought. For where he found the source
of present pain, there dwelt a deeper sorrow
the recognition that today's remorse
had cause in what would crowd his streets tomorrow:
the ache of having made turn away or fall
the eyes of passing women, sisters all.
|
