Classic Poem

Ancient road, that wind'st deserted
Through the level of the vale,
Sweeping toward the crowded market
Like a stream without a snail;

Standing by thee, I look backward,
And, as in the light of dreams,
See the years descend and vanish,
Like thy tented wains and 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 mossy way-side tavern
Comes the noisy throng no more.
And the faded sign, complaining,
Swings, unnoticed, at the door;

While the old, decrepid tollman,
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,
Still I pray that my decline
May be through as vernal valleys
And as blest a calm as thine.