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.