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Title: The Inn
Author: John Presland [
More Titles by Presland]
I
Friendship's an inn the roads of life afford
--I'll speak to you in metaphor, my friend--
And there a tired man his way may wend,
And, coming in, sit down beside the board,
Out of the dust and glare, and boldly send
For drink and victuals; haply cross his knees,
And in the cool dark parlour take his ease,
And gossip of his journey and its end.
That's friendship; there is neither right of place
Nor landlord duties, just the short hour's stay
From the sun and weariness between those kind
And quiet walls; and when the road's to face
Stony and long again, we take our way
Keeping that respite gratefully in mind.
THE INN
II
We take our pack, and jog our way again
Towards the windy sunset and the night;
The inn is now behind us, out of sight,
Showing no welcome shine of windowpane,
But dark and silent standing by the way
As we go forward, seeing mile on mile
Sink out of sight--just for a little while
We rested, in the middle of the day.
Is there an end at last, and shall we reach,
By the faint glimmer of new-risen stars,
Our house at last, and find the heart-repose
Which is the ultimate desire of each
Poor traveller--ah! shall they drop the bars,
And the doors open? Dear my friend, who knows?
[The end]
John Presland's poem: Inn
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