@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...FETES GALANTES: ROMANCES SANS PAROLE, SELECTION by PAUL VERLAINE TO THE MEN OF KENT by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE SORCERESS OF THE MOON by WILLIAM ROSE BENET RECOGNITION by SUSIE MONTGOMERY BEST APPEARANCES by ROBERT BROWNING SPIRITS OF SUMMER by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON |