No path is inarticulate,
But none reaches a point.
I walk when the day is late
And with silent steps anoint
The dusky air with thought —
Not mine, only that sought
Among the clustered leaves and vine,
Wind-rustled, indecipherable design.
I meet you coming the other way,
With black suit, cane, and bowler hat.
You bow, but have nothing to say,
Because you are neither this nor that.
I walk right through you and smile
At the path beckoning mile upon mile.