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I take that road, the pond along,
That sings so wondrous the wanderer's song.
Two tracks of pebbles pressed in clay,
Where once passed naught but horse and dray.
Away, away! the pond aside,
From broadcast scenes not to abide.
Upon pond water shine stripes of dust
In lengthy lines of things I must
And must not — the is and the aught
Of actions considered and careless thought.
Though overwrought it's strong I stride,
To where, to when, to turn, decide!
On heel and sole, on knee and thigh,
By mind and soul, by searching eye
To where grow six pair of iris blue
From where two pair of teal ducks flew
Across the lane, then o'er the grass,
Where it has lain alone, alas! —
A single glove, revealed of snow,
That some left hand and ring would know.
And grow 'tween fingers stalk and seed;
A field not mowed and now in need.
Till will that thing, brown stitch and stuff,
By blades ruff edge to shred and fluff
Be churned to thatch, ground into ground —
What was little sought and never found
Are those I've taught, from whom I've learned
And then left lay and n'er returned.
Till that mad day, self-judged as friend ,
To as lawyers may, my life defend.
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