But down the weary paths we know,
Through every change of sky and change of days
Silent, processional we go.
Not unto us the soft, unlaboured breath
Of children’s hopes and children’s fears:
We are not sworn to battle to the death
With all the wrongs of all the years:
We are old, we are old, and worn and school’d with ills,
Maybe our road is almost done,
Maybe we are drawn near unto the hills