Vagabonds of beauty, Wistful exquisite waifs From a lost, and a forgotten, and a lovely land, We cannot comfort you Though our souls yearn for you. You are delicate strangers In a gloomy town, Stared at and hated— Gold crocus blossoms in a drab lane. We cannot comfort you; Your life is anguish; All we can do— Mutely bring pungent herbs and branches of oak And resinous scented pine wreaths To hid the crown of thorny pain Crushing your white frail foreheads.
This poem is in the public domain.