Classic Poem

The lonesomest time and the lonesomest place
And the drabbest and dreariest, too,
Is not in a desert of limitless space
Nor the heart of a forest where leaves interlace
And the owls sound their spooky " To-whoo-oo! "
No, the lonesomest place is a white light cafe
When the guests and the waiters are all gone away
And in place of the lights and the babel
There's only the clock-tick, the light from the street,
A smell of damp floors and of stale things to eat,
And the sight of the chairs on each table,
The chairs stacked up high on each table.

Why, it's scary to peek through the doorway and see
That dining place empty and dead,
Where, earlier, crowds of gay people would be
With music and chatter and laughter and glee
And the wine glowing, yellow and red.
It's ghostly and spooky and shrouded and grey
When the guests and the waiters have all gone away
And the murk in the corners is sable,
And once you have seen it so gloomy and cold
It never seems quite the same place as of old.
The glamor is vanished, and tarnished the gold,
When the chairs are piled up on each table,
The empty chairs stacked on each table.