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I
The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
I am — yet what I am none cares or knows;
My friends forsake me like a memory lost:
I am the self-consumer of my woes —
So, we’ll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
