The Wanderer

Have I finished my life, am I done?
Is my heart-blood thin and cold,
That I gnaw the bones of the town?
Am I empty and old?

My flags are the chimneys' grime,
Tossed on a languid breeze.
Have I dreamed of the roaring rhyme,
A storm through the trees?

The snow in the streets is black,
Profaned with the city's sin;
I know of a star-lit track
Where God's hand has been.

Have I finished with snow and sun,
With the wind on the open plain,
That I starve in the barren town--
Is my life in vain?