C 8 ] 

 THE OLD MARLBOROUGH ROAD 



When the spring stirs my blood 

 With the instinct to travel, 

 I can get enough gravel 

 On the Old Marlborough Road. 

 Nobody repairs it. 

 For nobody wears it; 

 It is a living way, 

 As the Christians say. 

 Not many there be 



Who enter therein. 

 Only the guests of the 



Irishman Quin. 

 What is it, what is it. 



But a direction out there, 

 And the bare possibility 

 Of going somewhere? 



Great guideboards of stone. 

 But travellers none; 

 Cenotaphs of the towns 

 Named on their crowns. 

 It is worth going to see 

 Where you might be. 

 What king 

 Did the thing, 

 I am still wondering; 

 Set up how or when. 

 By what selectmen. 



