Roads
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know a country laced with roads,They join the hills and they span the brooks,They weave like a shuttle between broad fields,And slide discreetly through hidden nooks.They are canopied like a Persian domeAnd carpeted with orient dyes.They are myriad-voiced, and musical,And scented with happiest memories.O Winding roads that I know so well,Every twist and turn, every hollow and hill!They are set in my heart to a pulsing tuneGay as a honey-bee humming in June.'T is the rhythmic beat of a horse's feetAnd the pattering paws of a sheep-dog bitch;'T is the creaking trees, and the singing breeze,And the rustle of leaves in the road-side ditch. A cow in a meadow shakes her bellAnd the notes cut sharp through the autumn air,Each chattering brook bears a fleet of leavesTheir cargo the rainbow, and just now whereThe sun splashed bright on the road aheadA startled rabbit quivered and fled.O Uphill roads and roads that dip down!You curl your sun-spattered length along,And your march is beaten into a songBy the softly ringing hoofs of a horseAnd the panting breath of the dogs I love.The pageant of Autumn follows its courseAnd the blue sky of Autumn laughs above. And the song and the country become as one,I see it as music, I hear it as light;Prismatic and shimmering, trembling to tone,The land of desire, my soul's delight.And always it beats in my listening earsWith the gentle thud of a horse's stride,With the swift-falling steps of many dogs,Following, following at my side.O Roads that journey to fairyland!Radiant highways whose vistas gleam,Leading me on, under crimson leaves,To the opaline gates of the Castles of Dream. Teatro Bambino. Dublin, N. H. How still it is! Sunshine itself here fallsIn quiet shafts of light through the high treesWhich, arching, make a roof above the wallsChanging from sun to shadow as each breezeLingers a moment, charmed by the strange sightOf an Italian theatre, storied, seerOf vague romance, and time's long history;Where tiers of grass-grown seats sprinkled with white,Sweet-scented clover, form a broken sphereGrouped round the stage in hushed expectancy. What sound is that which echoes through the wood?Is it the reedy note of an oaten pipe?Perchance a minute more will see the broodOf the shaggy forest god, and on his lipWill rest the rushes he is wont to play.His train in woven baskets bear ripe fruitAnd weave a dance with ropes of gray acorns,So light their touch the grasses scarcely swayAs they the measure tread to the lilting flute.Alas! 't is only Fancy thus adorns. A cloud drifts idly over the shining sun.How damp it seems, how silent, still, and strange!Surely 't was here some tragedy was done,And here the chorus sang each coming change?Sure this is deep in some sweet, southern wood,These are not pines, but cypress tall and dark;That is no thrush which sings so rapturously,But the nightingale in his most passionate moodBursting his little heart with anguish. Hark!The tread of sandalled feet comes noiselessly. The silence almost is a sound, and dreamsTake on the semblances of finite things;So potent is the spell that what but seemsElsewhere, is lifted here on Fancy's wings.The little woodland theatre seems to wait,All tremulous with hope and wistful joy,For something that is sure to come at last,Some deep emotion, satisfying, great.It grows a living presence, bold and shy,Cradling the future in a glorious past.
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