We used to fear the lonely road
That twisted round the hill;
It dipped down to the river-way,
And passed the haunted mill,
And then crept on, until it reached
The churchyard, green and still.
No pipers ever took that road,—
No gipsies, brown and gay;—
No shepherds with their gentle flocks,—
No loads of scented hay;—
No market-wagons jingled by
On any Saturday.
The dog-wood there flung wide its stars
In April, silvery sweet;
The squirrels crossed that path all day
On tiny flying feet;
The wild, brown rabbits knew each turn,
Each shadowy safe retreat.
And there the golden-belted bee
Sang his sweet summer song;
The crickets chirped there to the moon
With steady note and strong;
Till cold and silence wrapped them round
When autumn nights grew long.
But, oh! they brought the lonely dead
Along that quiet way,
With strange procession, dark and slow,
On sunny days and grey;
We used to watch them, wonder-eyed,
Nor care again to play,—
And we forgot each merry jest;
The birds on bush and tree
Silenced the song within their throats,
And with us watched to see,
The soft, slow passing out of sight
Of that dark mystery.
We fear no more the lonely road
That winds around the hill;
Far from the busy world's highway
And the gods’ slow-grinding mill;
It only seems a peaceful path,
Pleasant, and green, and still.