O, road and path, and path and road, They write the story plain; To the picnic grounds, to the little church, And for water, wood, and grain. They point to the friend, and the dearest friend, The gossip, the recluse; To the cloud of grief, and the star of love, And all life's human use. There's a rain-washed mark leads up the hill Because two boys were chums; And a bridle path steals down the draw, -- Romance in its season comes. O, fennel and chickweed fill the ruts In the sunny buffalo grass; For Andy Marsh and his cousin Bill Look sidewise when they pass. 'Twas a well worn track to Heathering's farm, But the courting's over now; Mary and Belle chose husbands well, And Jane the veil and the vow. To Connor's house is a welcome road, And jollity is ringing; O, the open door and the dancing-floor, The laughter and the singing! There are highways born, the old roads die, -- Can you read what once they said? From the rain-worn ditch, and the sunflower clump, And the needs of folk long dead? |