Classic Poem

See, dear—all day, along the street
And down the dry, hard-beaten road
We keep the treadmill pace of feet
That drive the task or bear the load.

But here's no chart of routes of trade.
Of ton-miles, foot-pounds, rates percent.
These are but byways, where we've made
Field-holiday, and been content.

To wander in a wider space
On pathways leading through the bars—
To meet the free wind, face to face—
And overhead, to see the stars!