The Streets

Marlboro' and Waterloo and Trafalgar,     Tuileries, Talavera, Valenciennes,     Were strange names all, and all familiar;     For down their streets I went, early and late     (Is there a street where I have never been     Of all those hundreds, narrow, skyless, straight?)--     Early and late, they were my woods and meadows;     The rain upon their dust my summer smell;     Their scant herb and brown sparrows and harsh shadows     Were all my spring. Was there another spring?     I knew their noisy desolation well,     Drinking it up as a child drinks everything,     Knowing no other world than brick and stone,     With one rich memory of the earth all bright.     Now all is fallen into oblivion--     All that I was, in years of school and play,     Things that I hated, things that were delight,     Are all forgotten, or shut all away     Behind a creaking door that opens slow.     But there's a child that walks those streets of war,     Hearing his running footsteps as they go     Echoed from house to house, and wondering     At Marlboro', Waterloo and Trafalgar;     And at night, when the yellow gas lamps fling     Unsteady shadows, singing for company;     Yet loving the lighted dark, and any star     Caught by sharp roofs in a narrow net of sky.