A Visitor Poem by John Florio

He came alone to visit this stream,
and went back after some times,
He's empty-handed when he came,
without clothes, friends and name.
His pure life without any crimes,
used to shine as if the stars gleam.

During his stay, he did many deeds,
made friends, foes and his own,
Colored his life in different colours,
looked himself so fresh like flowers,
Into an adolescent he was grown,
And also the crops, from his seeds.

He earned everything at his prime,
and prepared to back his home,
But all his ties were hard to break,
Often looked back, couldn't speak,
His path looked again lonesome,
with none to follow again this time.

He left all here, of good or wrong,
he took nothing there with him,
Empty-handed, lacked of clothes;
forgotten all his joys and sorrows,
left the stream flowing so dim,
where his story remains like a song.