THE moving pictures of my flight Through planted fields and orchards white With flower, past tower and sleepy town, All vanished, save a cross that stood Beside the way, close to the wood, Below a hill whose slope of brown Warmed with the first green of the vine; And there a woman bowing down Before a shrine. On paven streets I hear the roar Again, move in the crowd once more; But now when burdens seem to be Too hard, those hillsides reappear, -- That peasant form; and even here, Rising at every turn for me Out of the pain and wrong and loss, On these sad city stones, I see A wayside cross. |