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Roads are flowing everywhere
In the night, beneath the moon.
But one of them the homing mare
Is certain of; and soon
The barn will be in plainest sight,
Grey beyond the grove.
To her the misty way is bright,
As if another drove.
She points an ear at every turn
Before a hoof arrives.
What hand is here from which to learn?
Who is it sits and drives?
This poem is in the public domain.
In the middle of the wood it starts,
Then over the wall and the meadow
And into our ears all day. But it departs—
Sometimes—like a shadow.
There is an instant when it grows
Too weak to climb a solid fence,
And creeps to find a crack. But the wind blows,
Scattering it hence
Rain last night has left the field
Bare as though a goblin kept it;
Inch by inch the fellow kneeled
And picked it clean; and his wife swept it.
Tomorrow morning when I pass
A million particles will shine,
As if the sky had been of glass
And had fallen, shattered fine.
Suddenly, across the road,
A river of strange waters flowed,
And my old friend I ran to see
Stood and only waved at me,
I cried aloud the things we did
So long ago—and the stream slid
More quietly a little while.
I saw him nod and faintly smile,