Like the march of Roman legions that made it long ago;
But I will choose another way, a little road I know.
There no poor tramp goes limping, nor rich poor men drive by,
Nor ever crowding cattle, or sheep in dusty throng
Before their beating drovers drift cruelly along:
But only birds and free things, and ever in my ear
Sound of the leaves and little tongues of water talking near.
The great roads march on boldly, with scarce a curve or bend,
From some huge smoky Nothing, to Nothing at their end;
They march like Cæsar’s legions, and none may them withstand,