RUNNING along a bank, a parapet br That saves from the precipitous wood below br The level road, there is a path. It serves br Children for looking down the long smooth steep, br Between the legs of beech and yew, to where br A fallen tree checks the sight: while men and women br Content themselves with the road and what they see br Over the bank, and what the children tell. br The path, winding like silver, trickles on, br Bordered and even invaded by thinnest moss br That tries to cover roots and crumbling chalk br With gold, olive, and emerald, but in vain. br The children wear it. They have flattened the bank br On top, and silvered it between the moss br With the current of their feet, year after year. br But the road is houseless, and leads not to school. br To see a child is rare there, and the eye br Has but the road, the wood that overhangs br And underyawns it, and the path that looks br As if it led on to some legendary br Or fancied place where men have wished to go br And stay; till, sudden, it ends where the wood ends.