WE are out on the open
road.
Through the
low west window a cold light
flows
On the floor where never my numb feet
trode
Before; onward
the strange road goes.
Soon the spaces of the western
sky
With shutters of
sombre cloud will close.
But we’ll still be together, this road and
I,
Together,
wherever the long road goes.
The wind chases by us, and over the
corn
Pale shadows
flee from us as if from their foes.
Like a snake we thresh on the long,
forlorn
Land, as
onward the long road goes.
From the sky, the low, tired moon
fades out;
Through
the poplars the night-wind blows;
Pale, sleepy phantoms are tossed
about
As the wind
asks whither the wan road goes.
Away in the distance wakes a
lamp.
Inscrutable
small lights glitter in rows.
But they come no nearer, and still we
tramp
Onward,
wherever the strange road goes.
Beat after beat falls sombre and
dull.
The wind is
unchanging, not one of us knows
What will be in the final lull
When we find the place where
this dead road goes.
For something must come, since we
pass and pass
Along
in the coiled, convulsive throes
Of this marching, along with the invisible
grass
That goes
wherever this old road goes.
Perhaps we shall come to
oblivion.
Perhaps we
shall march till our tired toes
Tread over the edge of the pit, and we’re
gone
Down the
endless slope where the last road goes.
If so, let us forge ahead, straight
on
If we’re going to
sleep the sleep with those
That fall forever, knowing none
Of this land whereon the wrong
road goes.