The Lonely Road

We used to fear the lonely road      That twisted round the hill;     It dipped down to the river-way,      And passed the haunted mill,     And then crept on, until it reached      The churchyard, green and still.     No pipers ever took that road,      No gipsies, brown and gay;     No shepherds with their gentle flocks,      No loads of scented hay;     No market-waggons jingled by      On any Saturday.     The dog-wood there flung wide its stars,      In April, silvery sweet;     The squirrels crossed that path all day      On tiny flying feet;     The wild, brown rabbits knew each turn,      Each shadowy safe retreat.     And there the golden-belted bee      Sang his sweet summer song,     The crickets chirped there to the moon      With steady note and strong;     Till cold and silence wrapped them round      When autumn nights grew long.     But, oh! they brought the lonely dead      Along that quiet way,     With strange procession, dark and slow,      On sunny days and grey;     We used to watch them, wonder-eyed,      Nor care again to play.     And we forgot each merry jest;      The birds on bush and tree     Silenced the song within their throats      And with us watched to see,     The soft, slow passing out of sight      Of that dark mystery.     *    *    *    *    *     We fear no more the lonely road      That winds around the hill;     Far from the busy world's highway      And the gods' slow-grinding mill;     It only seems a peaceful path,      Pleasant, and green, and still.