Transients
They are ashamed who leave so soon
The Inn of Grief—who thought to stay
Through many a faithful sun and moon,
Yet tarry but a day.
Shame-faced I watch them pay the score,
Then straight with eager footsteps press
Where waits beyond its rose-wreathed door
The Inn of Happiness.
I wish I did not know that here,
Here too—where they have dreamed to stay
So many and many a golden year
They lodge but for a day.
