MARLBORO' and Waterloo and Trafalgar, Tuileries, Talavera, Valenciennes, Were strange names all, and all familiar; For down their streets I went, early and late (Is there a street where I have never been Of all those hundreds, narrow, skyless, straight?)— Early and late, they were my woods and meadows; The rain upon their dust my summer smell; Their scant herb and brown sparrows and harsh shadows Were all my spring. Was there another spring? I knew their noisy desolation well, Drinking it up as a child drinks everything, Knowing no other world than brick and stone, With one rich memory of the earth all bright. Now all is fallen into oblivion— All that I was, in years of school and play, Things that I hated, things that were delight, Are all forgotten, or shut all away Behind a creaking door that opens slow. But there's a child that walks those streets of war, Hearing his running footsteps as they go Echoed from house to house, and wondering At Marlboro', Waterloo and Trafalgar; And at night, when the yellow gas lamps fling Unsteady shadows, singing for company; Yet loving the lighted dark, and any star Caught by sharp roofs in a narrow net of sky. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WILLOW POEM by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS TO MY FIRST LOVE, MY MOTHER by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI ON THE LIFE OF MAN by FRANCIS BEAUMONT CAFE TORTONI ('81) by WILLIAM ROSE BENET TO EMILY DICKINSON by MARY BOWEN BRAINERD THE WILD HORSE by MARY ANN BROWNE |