In the small, quiet room when guests have gone
Home for the night and left him to himself...
To thoughts of them and of the evening play,
To dishes left unwashed in the basin bay,
And mute furniture left slightly askew
That does not dance to remnants of the tune
Still playing, fading slowly in his mind,
That they had sung together mingled in the song,
He sits now in the mellow of dim light,
Reclined and softly breathing sighs of ease.
The ticking clock, his only staying friend,
Fills up the room with sound now they are gone
And stays the gloom by keeping silence off...
Like hope in an oft-disheartening world.