Not e'en the Bobolinks were gay,
And shells had lost their minstrelsy.
And all my heart cried out for you,
For, ah, my sweet, at last I knew
Alone, one may not find the clew
Where runs the road to Arcady!
And shells had lost their minstrelsy.
And all my heart cried out for you,
For, ah, my sweet, at last I knew
Alone, one may not find the clew
Where runs the road to Arcady!
THE COUNTRY ROAD
WHITE in the sunshine, gray in the shade,
Like an out-spun thread of fate,
It cleaves the meadows and slips away
Where the hills in ambush wait,
Mounting the slopes with a sure up-lift,
Dipping to valleys below,
And where it begins and where is the end
There's never an eye may know.
Like an out-spun thread of fate,
It cleaves the meadows and slips away
Where the hills in ambush wait,
Mounting the slopes with a sure up-lift,
Dipping to valleys below,
And where it begins and where is the end
There's never an eye may know.
Beside it straggles an age-gray fence
With gaps for the cows to pass,
At the powdered hem wild violets bind
The dust to the emerald grass.
Above, like weaving shuttles a-wing
The wrens and the blue-birds fly,
And higher still the vultures sail,
Black specks in the azure sky.
With gaps for the cows to pass,
At the powdered hem wild violets bind
The dust to the emerald grass.
Above, like weaving shuttles a-wing
The wrens and the blue-birds fly,
And higher still the vultures sail,
Black specks in the azure sky.
Here the bare-foot boys go racing past,
The dust flung back like foam
There the slow-hoofed oxen, heads a-swing,
Draw the hay-sweet wagons home.
The dust flung back like foam
There the slow-hoofed oxen, heads a-swing,
Draw the hay-sweet wagons home.
24
