I travel down a stony path--I'm careful where I walk.
So many people I may pass, but seldom ever talk.

The road behind me had no start that I could comprehend.
The road before me winds along, I fear it has no end.

In all the places that I go, on all the trails I travel,
I hear sad tales of many, but do not, my own, unravel.

I feel their burdons are their own and not a part of me.
I felt above the suffering crowds; it took so long to see.

And now, at last, it comes to me that this, too, is my business.
I know that I have wasted life; I know where my mistake is.

For all my years I quiet keep and hoard words like a miser.
And for all the miles my feet have trod I'm older, but no wiser.