The Waif

I MET a threadbare waif below the town.
Sad were his eyes, and from his dusty coat
Roses no longer crimson dangled down.
Pebbles that had been kisses decked his throat.

He held a cup, and listlessly and slow
Drank wine, as one who had no joy thereof.
And when I asked his name, he answered low:
“My name is Habit — once they called me Love.”