Haunted

Men are toiling in the meadow
     In the rich light of the sun,
     Toiling, moiling, one by one,
Toiling double, man and shadow
     One by one, but ne’er alone!

There a gnarled imp crouches, clutching
     Dream-gold, under every stone;
     Here a goblin skeleton
Leers upon a soul just touchin
     Some fair sin It sees, alone.

In the dim light of her parlor
     Sits a Lady on her throne,
     Smiling, wiling,—look and tone
Blandishing the courtly caller
     Only they—but not alone!

Creeps a black, malignant spider
     From her red lip’s venom grown
     Weaving all her silken zone
For his snare who sits beside her
     Happy in that thought—“Alone.”

Men along the mart are treading 
     Each pursuing but his own;
     Budded lasses, maidens blown,
Down the pave are fluttering, spreading,
     One by one, but not alone.

Haggard Blame, and Care with knitted 
     Forehead, and pales Hopes undone
     Blisses pure eyed as the sun,
And sweet guardians of the unpitied,
     Throng the throngs that seem alone.

All the future, pictured faintly,
     Hovers round our march begun;
     All our good and evil done,—
Pallid spectres foul or saintly—
     Haunt us still when most alone.

Nothing boots or sun or shadow,
     Day or night with laugh or moan,
     One or many strange or known,
Walking city, wild, or meadow,
     Not a wanderer walks alone!