Virna Sheard (1865?–1943)

HE is not desolate whose ship is sailing

Over the mystery of an unknown sea,

For some great love with faithfulness unfailing

Will light the stars to bear him company.

Out in the silence of the mountain passes,

The heart makes peace and liberty its own—

The wind that blows across the scented grasses

Bringing the balm of sleep—comes not alone.

Beneath the vast illimitable spaces

Where God has set His jewels in array,

A man may pitch his tent in desert places,

Yet know that heaven is not so far away.

But in the city—in the lighted city

Where gilded spires point toward the sky,

And fluttered rags and hunger ask for pity,

Grey Loneliness in cloth-of-gold, goes by.