The Wayfarer

The Wayfarer, weary of surging seas, With sighs, resigned to failure, and her golden hair, He turned upon the yielding leaves, And looked upon the confusing map of the stars, With a cry like a falling leaf in the cold, And a song of the waters, and darkness. Where is the hour, his companion, the lost one? But the heavens are silent—a nightingale called.

Was it a nightingale?
And the burden of the silent places drove him in, The supreme the dark-stormy sound—all sang of shadows, Then ceased.
On the granite pillars, the ashes broke,
And the treetops in the morning light trembled and splintered. Nothing! All! In that silence, his heart turned to the trees

• Stephen Crane