On the Road to the Sea

You know, at dusk, the last bird's cry,

And round the house the flap of the bat's low flight,

Trees that go black against the sky

And then—how soon the night!

No shadow of you on any bright road again,

And at the darkening end of this—what voice? whose kiss? As if you'd say!

It is not I who have walked with you, it will not be I who take away

Peace, peace, my little handful of the gleaner's grain

From your reaped fields at the shut of day.

Peace! Would you not rather die

Reeling,—with all the cannons at your ear?

So, at least, would I,

And I may not be here

To-night, to-morrow morning or next year.

Still I will let you keep your life a little while,

See dear?

I have made you smile.