The Road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet,

And whither then? I cannot say.

—It seems a day
(I speak of one from many singled out)
One of those heavenly days that cannot die;
When, in the eagerness of boyish hope,
I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth
With a huge wallet o’er my shoulders slung,
A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps
Tow’rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint,
Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds
Which for that service had been husbanded,
By exhortation of my frugal Dame—
Motley accoutrement, of power to smile
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and, in truth,
More ragged than need was! O’er pathless rocks,
Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets,
Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook
Unvisited, where not a broken bough
Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign
Of devastation; but the hazels rose
Tall and *****, with tempting clusters hung,
A ****** scene!—A little while I stood,
Breathing with such suppression of the heart
As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint
Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed
The banquet;—or beneath the trees I sate
Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played;
A temper known to those, who, after long
And weary expectation, have been blest
With sudden happiness beyond all hope.
Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves
The violets of five seasons re-appear
And fade, unseen by any human eye;
Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on
For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam,
And—with my cheek on one of those green stones
That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees,
Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep—
I heard the murmur, and the murmuring sound,
In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay
Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure,
The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,
And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,
And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash
And merciless ravage: and the shady nook
Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,
Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up
Their quiet being: and, unless I now
Confound my present feelings with the past;
Ere from the mutilated bower I turned
Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld
The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky.—
Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades
In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand
Touch—for there is a spirit in the woods.

But outer Space,
At least this far,
For all the fuss
Of the populace
Stays more popular
Than populous

From where I lingered in a lull in march
outside the sugar-house one night for choice,
I called the fireman with a careful voice
And bade him leave the pan and stoke the arch:
‘O fireman, give the fire another stoke,
And send more sparks up chimney with the smoke.’
I thought a few might tangle, as they did,
Among bare maple boughs, and in the rare
Hill atmosphere not cease to glow,
And so be added to the moon up there.
The moon, though slight, was moon enough to show
On every tree a bucket with a lid,
And on black ground a bear-skin rug of snow.
The sparks made no attempt to be the moon.
They were content to figure in the trees
As Leo, Orion, and the Pleiades.
And that was what the boughs were full of soon.

I think we read big books to forget that we are living small lives.

I traveled this life once in search of my treasure
For anything easy which could give me pleasure
My choices were many
A buck or a penny
They all wanted something
My life or my money
Their eyes were all jaded
In faces soon faded
Though now I remember
In early September
The voice in the crowd
The warning out loud
A wizened old crone
Yells: “You’ll be alone.”
The message was wasted, I just could not hear
The din of the music left no room for fear.

I traveled this life then in beauty surrounded
In places where sunshine and nature abounded
The feeling of wonder
Undimmed by the thunder
And flashes of lightning
From clouds to down under
I ran through the rain
Ignoring all pain
My youth was my own
Now soaked to the bone
As if in a play
With nothing to say
The words of a bird
Which I never heard
The colors were muted I felt quite insane
Now heedless and breathless I missed the refrain.

I traveled this life then to see many places
The dull and the dreary with beautiful faces
But if you would dare
To sample the fare
You heeded the warning
To always beware
Of laughter familiar
And manner peculiar
The one who would sleep
Was not yours to keep
Just keep moving on
The show is now gone
No Jack, Jill, or Joan
Once more you’re alone
The bed sheets were wrinkled, and no four-leafed clover—
As aimless I wondered “How could it be over?”

I wandered through life, Pacific, Atlantic
The message I missed oblivious and frantic
I paid no attention
Eschewed all convention
While others still blaming
With dark condescension
Within me the flame
Was seeking to blame
A cadre of gents
With dollars and cents
Whose zero sum game
Of fortune and fame
Had thwarted my laughter
From now ever-after
In vain had I hoped to hear on the phone
The answer I sought while living alone.

I anchored a lifetime in hopes for a cause
And fearlessly battled for years without pause
Great rallies attended
At times apprehended
Thought nothing of giving
The cause I defended
I sought to inspire
Uncover the liar
The world never heeded
What I knew it needed
And yet, to the end
I learned not to bend
So true in my quest
Rejecting the rest
I battled with others till they fell away
As each found a reason why they couldn’t stay.

I traveled a life where my friendships I’d borrow
As happiness faded I turned now to sorrow
But in a reflection
A dream of perfection
Once more I was smiling
Now steeped in affection
The treasure I found
Through reason unbound
Defying all logic
The secret was magick
How could I have known
Why I was alone
Still trying to reach
The star from the beach?
My love bore a flower so radiant and free
It unchained all the hearts who had sought it in me.

J. Sandy

(Sonnet)*

In my working days world,
Outside little birdies do swirl,

With wings and songs saying,
Wee birds in trees are playing,

But my blue drab or grey suit,
That chains me to my roots,

With only windows to imagine
A world so colourful, tangible,

Is shroud, only wrap of clothes,
Yet little birds, so downy robed,

And within my comely, demise,
See how brightly birdies do fly,

As I shudder, muted, wintering,
O how wee birdies can sing.