Where the old road meets the new road
I stand the guard at morn,
Where one comes winding down the hill,
The other, through it torn.
October’s friendly fingers dipped
In every mellow shade
Have touched the leaves on all the trees
That stand within the glade.
In distant treetops I behold,
As I have seen in clouds,
The faces of my heroes
Or dead men in their shrouds.
The marching columns pass me by,
All sailor lads in blue.
And some will wink, and some will smile,
The way young fellows do.
And overhead the deepening sky
More bright and bluer flows,
While one lone fleecy, sheeplike cloud
Before the dog-wind goes.
The restless leaves like pounding surf
Sound breakers through the trees.
I strip of all reality
And drown myself in these.
WHEN KILMER WROTE OF TREES
When Kilmer wrote of trees he must have seen
The flowering catalpas all a-bloom,
And though about him guns spoke quick of death
And distant cannon thundered oaths of doom
He did not harken. What were all of these
To where beyond the trenches stood the trees?
WILD GEESE
Geese in the night flying low,
I hear the beat of their wings.
I wish that I could know
If they are calling to me.