Abandoned Conestoga

This wagon is done with the trails and the rocks’ inimical outcry Under the iron wheels; the rivers that thwarted its path; The parapets of wind; the sands where the slow snakes lie Drowsed in sulphurous slumber: done with the invigorate wrath Of forests black with rain; of swamps in the fluctuant meadow: Done with the spring and its song, the wavewise prairies aglow With flowering laughter ; the summer, dark with the mountain shadow ; The autumnal deserts of flame; the winter-deep valley of snow... Done with ponderous harvest, the long way to woodlot and mill; Abandoned to scurrilous weeds, the insatiate teeth of the rust; Tunneled by blundering worms, broken of axle and thill; Old and empty of labor, left to the dreaming of dust... Now is the pause in the heart, (over, the danger and daring) And the quiet of unremembrance after the dogged wayfaring.