Is it very long ago things were as they are
Now? or was it ever? or is it to be?
Was it up this road we came, glad the end was far?
Taking comfort each of each, singing cheerily?
O, the way was good to tread! Up hill and down;
Past the quiet forestlands, by the grassy plains;
Here a stony wilderness, there an ancient town,
Now the high sun over us, now the driving rains.
Strange and evil things we met—but what cared we,
Strong men and unafraid, ripe for any chance?
Battles by the countless score, red blood running free—
Soon we learned that all of these were our inheritance.
Some of us there were that fell: what was that to us?
They were weak—we were strong— health we held to yet:
Pleasant graves we digged them, we the valorous,—
Then to the road again, striving to forget.
Once again upon the road! The seasons passed us by—
Blood-root and mayflowers, grasses straight and tall,
Scarlet banners on the hills, snowdrifts white and high,—
One by one we lived them through, giving thanks for all.
O, the countries that we found in our wandering!
Wide seas without a sail, islands fringed with foam,
Undiscovered till we came, waiting for their king,—
We might tarry but a while, far a way from home.
Far away the home we sought,—soon we must be gone;
The old road, the old days, still we clung to those;
The dawn came, the moon came, the dusk came, the dawn—
Still we kept upon this path long ago we chose.
Was it up this road we came, glad the end was far,
Yesterday,—last year—a million years ago?
Surely it was morning then: now, the twilight star
Hangs above the hidden hills—white and very low.
Quietly the Earth takes on the hush of things asleep;
All the silence of the birds stills the moveless air;
—Yet we must not falter now, though the way be steep:
Just beyond the urn o’ the road,—surely Peace is there!
