But, as we neared to-night, somehow, I felt that he would stop and speak: Though he went by: and when I turned, I saw him standing in the road, And looking back, with hand to brow, As if to shade old eyes, grown weak Awaiting the long sleep they’d earned: Though, as again towards him I strode, A friendly light within them burned. And then, as I drew nigh, he spoke With shaking head, and voice that broke: "I’ve missed you these last nights," he said "And I have not so many now That I can miss friends easily... Aye: friends grow scarce, as you grow old: And roads are rough: and winds are cold: And when you feel you’re losing hold, Life does not go too merrily." And then he stood with nodding head, And spoke no more. And so I told How I had been, six days and nights, Exiled from pleasant sounds and sights. And now, as though my voice had stirred His heart to speech, he told right out, With quickening eye and quavering word, The things I care to hear about, The little things that make up life: How he’d been lonesome, since his wife Had died, some thirty year ago: And how he trudged three mile or so To reach the farmstead where he worked, And three mile back to his own door... For he dwelt outby on the moor: And every day the distance irked More sorely still his poor, old bones; And all the road seemed strewn with stones To trip you up, when you were old-- When you were old, and friends were few: How, since the farmstead had been sold, The master and the men were new, All save himself; and they were young; And Mistress had a raspy tongue: So, often, he would hardly speak A friendly word from week to week With any soul. Old friends had died, Or else had quit the countryside: And, since his wife was taken, he Had lived alone, this thirty year: And there were few who cared to hear An old man’s jabber ... and too long He’d kept me, standing in the cold, With his long tongue, and such a song About himself! And I would be... I put my arm through his; and turned To go upon his way with him: And once again that warm light burned In those old eyes, so weak and dim: While, with thin, piping voice, he told How much it meant to him each night To change a kindly word with me: To think that he’d at least one friend Who’d maybe miss him, in the end. Then, as we walked, he said no more: And, silent, in the starry light, Across the wide, sweet-smelling bent, Between the grass and stars we went In quiet, friendly company: And, all the way, we only heard A chirrup where some partridge stirred, And ran before us through the grass, To hide his head till we should pass.