Wayfarers

So the roads part that shall not meet again
And yours burns white to purple hills that glow
Against the sunrise, lustre-peaked with snow.
Mine in wood-quietude goes wandering –
It leads to nowhere. But the blackbirds sing
And all the pines are scented after rain
Emerald-dark the light hangs quivering –
Dreams are the masters here of wander-pain.
You were a poor companion. Did you guess
How many burdens I had borne for you
But that the fingers of your loneliness
Thrust us apart? Perhaps you never knew …
And now, the dark-tressed pines will hide away
Hills, and hill-goers. I can only pray.