Ancient road, that winds deserted
Through the level of the vale,
Sweeping toward the crowded market,
Like a stream with scarce a sail.
Standing by thee, I look backward,
And as in the light of dreams
See the years roll down and vanish
Like thy whitely tented teams.
Here I stroll along the village
As in youth’s departed morn;
But I miss the crowded coaches
And the driver’s bugle-horn.
Miss the crowd of jovial teamsters
Filling buckets at the wells,
With their wains from Conestoga,
And their orchestras of bells.
To the moss-grown, wayside tavern
Comes the noisy crowd no more,
And the faded sign complaining
Swings unnoticed at the door.
The old toll-man at the gateway
Waiting for the few who pass
Reads the melancholy story
In the thickly springing grass.
Ancient highway, thou art vanquished—
The usurper of the vale
Rolls, in fiery, iron rattle,
Exultations on the gale.
Thou art vanquished and neglected;
But the good which thou hast done,
Though by man it be forgotten,
Shall be deathless as the sun.
Though neglected, gray and grassy,
Yet I pray that my decline
May be through as vernal valleys.
And as blest a calm as thine.
* * * * *