@3In 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.@1 | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THIRD BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 18. THE CHARM by THOMAS CAMPION THE WOLF AND THE DOG by JEAN DE LA FONTAINE IPHIGENEIA AND AGAMEMNON, FR. THE HELLENICS by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR THE WIDOW'S MITE by FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON I HAVE SEEN THE STARS AGAIN by PAUL SOUTHWORTH BLISS CLARE'S GHOST by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |