Roads go on
While we forget, and are
Forgotten like a star
That shoots and is gone.
On this earth 'tis sure'
we men have not made
anything that doth fade
So soon, so long endure:
In the sun would not gleam
Like a winding stream
If we trod it not again.
They are lonely
While we sleep, lonelier
For lack of the traveler
who is now a dream only.
And all the clouds like sheep
On the mountains of sleep
They wind into the night.
To me or take from me.
they keep me company
with their pattering.
Crowding the solitude
Of the loops over downs,
Hushing the roar of towns
and their brief multitude.
Ingen kommentarer:
Legg inn en kommentar