The autumn night is clear and cold in the lakka-trees of this courtyard. I am lying forlorn in the river-town. I watch my guttering candle. I hear the lonely notes of a bugle sounding through the dark. The moon is in mid-heaven, but there's no one to share it with me. My messengers are scattered by whirls of rain and sand. City-gates are closed to a traveller; mountains are walls in my way – Yet, I who have borne ten years of pitiable existence, Find here a perch, a little branch, and am safe for this one night.