poetry for breakfast

From one who stays

How empty seems the town now you are gone! 
A wilderness of sad streets, where gaunt walls 
Hide nothing to desire; sunshine falls 
Eery, distorted, as it long had shone 
On white, dead faces tombed in halls of stone. 
The whir of motors, stricken through with calls 
Of playing boys, floats up at intervals; 
But all these noises blur to one long moan. 
What quest is worth pursuing? And how strange 
That other men still go accustomed ways! 
I hate their interest in the things they do. 
A spectre-horde repeating without change 
An old routine. Alone I know the days 
Are still-born, and the world stopped, lacking you.