The Passer-By

WE are as children in a field at play

Beside a road whose way we do not know,

Save that somewhere it meets the end of day.

Upon the road there is a Passer-By

Who, pausing, beckons one of us — and lo!

Quickly he goes, nor stays to tell us why.

One day I shall look up and see him there

Beckoning me, and with the Passer-By

I, too, shall take the road — I wonder where?