Morning Guard

Where the old road meets the new road I stand the guard at morn, Where one comes winding down the hill, The other, through it torn.

October’s friendly fingers dipped In every mellow shade Have touched the leaves on all the trees That stand within the glade.

In distant treetops I behold, As I have seen in clouds, The faces of my heroes Or dead men in their shrouds.

The marching columns pass me by, All sailor lads in blue. And some will wink, and some will smile, The way young fellows do.

And overhead the deepening sky More bright and bluer flows, While one lone fleecy, sheeplike cloud Before the dog-wind goes.

The restless leaves like pounding surf Sound breakers through the trees. I strip of all reality And drown myself in these.