UNCHARTED by ISABEL ECCLESTONE MACKAY

WHERE shall I turn when gardener Day
Has closed earth's ordered garden walks—
The world outside is all astray,
And the Night talks?

I've seen a wistful face, wind blown,
Flit through the darkness past the bars.
Would it have lingered, had it known
Of friendlier stars?

I would there were some traveller's tale
Of this or that to ponder on,
Some echo as of nightingale
Or lark at dawn.

I ask but what a stranger may,
A moss-grown stone or weathered sign,
Or footprint pointing down the way
That must be mine.

How pleasant if a friend should say,
"The evening air blows sudden chill.
I'll join you, since I go your way!"
But no one will.

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