The traffic groaned, we did not hear,
We wandered gravely furrow-browed,
Oblivious, our minds unclear,
Our senses numbed, our shoulders bowed.
No blackbird song can pierce our world,
Our thoughts were fixed on stranger shores,
Where truth was dreamt midst currents, hurled
By home events and distant wars.
We stumbled on; we stumble on
As if we had a noble aim
In view, whilst nature’s treasures shone
In sunlight’s golden evening flame.
The track leads up towards the woods
Whose shade and dappled sunlight kiss
The lids of tired eyes, cool the blood
That haunts us with its silent hiss.
This dusty path is marked by those
Who comfort with their lolling tongue
And pleading eyes; in the hedgerows
Lurks the nettle’s sting, cobweb hung.
At last we come to where the view
Unfolds, and draws us out to scan
The distant hills, no longer blue
But vague, where our ambition ran.