As they sail along in their proudest way, with their feet a-dabble behind,
Their stiff starched tails stand up in a row, the crispiest tails you’ll find;
Now they are still, where the willows are, a-float on their spreading wings,
And upside down they are pictured there,—the pretty white china things!
ROADS
Many, many roads there are, warm and dusty brown,
Some go running to the hills, some turn into town,
Some lead far and far away, where nobody knows;
How I’d like to follow them, finding where each goes!
Once I found a pretty road, leading up a hill,
I thought each turn would be the last, and yet it wandered still;
Close beside a shady pool, up across a stile,
Then down beside a twist of stream, till I had gone a mile.
It was a fine and pleasant road, and as I walked I thought:
“It leads, perhaps, to stately lands which rich Sir John has bought:”
But down it went across a bridge, all tumbled and forlorn,
Then straight behind a farmer’s barn, where ducks were eating corn.
Many, many roads there are, warm and dusty brown;
Some go running to the hills, some turn into town;
Each and every one of them, I choose it as my friend,
For strange delights are waiting me, if I could find the end.