Loneliness

Now it is Loneliness who comes at night


Instead of Sleep, to sit beside my bed.


Like a tired child I lie and wait her tread,


I watch her softly blowing out the light.


Motionless sitting, neither left or right


She turns, and weary, weary droops her head.


She, too, is old; she, too, has fought the fight.


So, with the laurel she is garlanded.


Through the sad dark the slowly ebbing tide


Breaks on a barren shore, unsatisfied.


A strange wind flows... then silence. I am fain


To turn to Loneliness, to take her hand,


Cling to her, waiting, till the barren land

Fills with the dreadful monotone of rain.

Katherine Mansfield (Wellington, 1888 - Fontainebleau, 1923)