THE ROAD TO THE SEA 



By GRACE BARTON ALLEN 



A mile of level lane runs down 

 To southward of the ancient town. 



The track, so few there are who pass, 

 Is marked by triple lines of brown 



Cut deep into the wiry grass, 

 And thistles fortify the hedge 

 Of goldenrod along the edge. 



First comes the desert pasture land, 

 And then, afar on either hand, 



The bright-hued water meadows lie 

 Stained with a vivid green where stand 



Still pools whose light outshines the sky ; 

 And farther yet, along the west, 

 A landlocked bay's blue inlets rest. 



And then the sheltering dunes are near ; 

 And that faint murmur which the ear 



— So gradually the sound increased — 

 At first had scarcely seemed to hear, 



And had not missed it had it ceased, 

 Swells forth into the breakers' roar, 

 Down-beating on the hidden shore. 



Then clean-drawn rut and grassy band 

 Fray out, and ravel into sand ; 



And through a cleft between the drifts 

 Whose crumbling walls protect the land, 



The almost vanished roadway lifts 

 A little way its final reach, 

 And ends upon the pathless beach. 



Ah, once again to wander down 

 The seaward track beyond the town ! 



To pass the barren pastures by, 

 To see the marshes, gold and brown, 



Stretched out beneath the stretch of sky, 

 With red of grasses gone to seed, 

 And clouds of crimson-flowering weed ! 



Ah, once again to stand before 



The sandy walls which hide the shore! 



To find the rift between the dunes 

 And hear the ocean's voice once more — ■ 



That voice which to itself attunes 

 The discords *of my weary soul 

 And makes wild music of the whole! 



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