Classic Poem

In days that were — no matter when —
'Twas not a weed-grown palindrome,
At either end a dreamy glen,
But led, like other roads, to Rome.

Its dust was ridged by many wheels
That rolled to market, church, and fair;
But now a wave of grass conceals
The road that leads not anywhere.

The chipmunk haunts its tumbled walls
Where roses wait the wild-bee's kiss,
And honeysuckle droops and falls
Entwined with ropes of clematis.

And here the nesting meadow-lark
Hath built; and wisps of maidenhair
O'er-veil the grooves that faintly mark
The road that leads not anywhere.

Because it bore the grinding jar
Of sullen wheels from year to year,
Its twilight owns a softer star —
A sweeter silence lingers here.

And we, outworn by toil and stress,
As truant urchins let us fare,
Like our dear pathway, purposeless —
The road that leads not anywhere.