@3Decepiaque non capiatur.@1 WHERE this narrow lane slips by, All the land's breadth, over-glowed Under amplest arching sky, Seems a secret meet to keep For these hedged banks close and high, Till the turn of the road. Then a curve of sudden sweep— Lone and green the countryside, Like a cloak, with scarce a fold, And the white track's dwindling thread, Lies in basking beams dispread: You may look out far and wide From the turn of the road. There's a gleam of rusted gold, And a blink of eave-stained wall, Up the lane a rood or so, Where a thatched roof huddles low; And a day will seldom fall But its mistress, bent and old, Rime-frost hair and little red shawl, Through her black-gapped doorway fares, Very frail and meagre and small, And the years' unlifted load With a faltering foot she bears 'Twixt the tall banks to and fro; But her steps will ever stay Ere the turn of the road— Never reach it; you might guess That they halt for feebleness, Till you hear her story told. For she says: 'The children all Are a weary while away. Years long since I watched them go— 'Twas when dawn came glimmering cold— Round the turn of the road. And I'm lonesome left behind; Yet time passes, fast or slow, And they're coming home some day; They'll come back to me, they said: Just this morn that's overhead It might chance, for aught I know. 'And that's always in my mind, For I dream it in my sleep, And I think it when I wake, And when out of doors I creep Towards the turn of the road, Then a step I hardly make But I'm saying all the while, Ere another minute's gone I may see them there, all three, Coming home, poor lads, to me, Round the turn of the road. 'But a stone's throw further on, If I'd creep to where it showed Like a riband stretched a mile, And the longest look I'd take Saw naught stirring on its white, Sure my heart were fit to break. 'So or ever I come in sight, Home I set my face again, Lest I'd lose the thought that's light Through the darksome day. And then If I find the house so still That my heart begins to ache, And a hundred harms forebode, Ere my foot is o'er the sill, I can think I needn't fret, If they're maybe near me yet At the turn of the road.' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 43 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING FOUR QUARTETS: BURNT NORTON by THOMAS STEARNS ELIOT PICTURES FROM APPLEDORE: 1 by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL POPPY: FANTASTIC EXTRAVAGANCE by FRANCIS THOMPSON IN THE STILLNESS O' THE NIGHT by WILLIAM BARNES AFTER CONSTRUING by ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON |