What does it mean? Tired, angry, and ill at ease, 
No man, woman, or child, alive could please 
Me now. And yet I almost dare to laugh 
Because I sit and frame an epitaph— 
'Here lies all that no one loved of him 
And that loved no one.' Then in a trice that whim 
Has wearied. But, though I am like a river 
At fall of evening while it seems that never 
Has the sun lighted it or warmed it, while 
Cross breezes cut the surface to a file, 
This heart, some fraction of me, happily 
Floats through the window even now to a tree 
Down in the misting, dim-lit, quiet vale, 
Not like a pewit that returns to wail 
For something it has lost, but like a dove 
That slants unswerving to its home and love. 
There I find my rest, as through the dusk air 
Flies what yet lives in me: Beauty is there.