On The March

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.