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THE HORIZON

PALE trees on the horizon grow,
  Pale, faint and dim and grey —
Can they be real trees? They flow
    Into the mist away.
Between us the valleys are green and wide,
But what is beyond on the other side?

Beyond I see a wooden pier,
    Stretching into a shadowy lake.
And a sudden cry of wild-fowl I hear
    As over the reeds their flight they take.
Over the reeds and far away
Beyond the trees, dim, pale and grey;
    A wooden pier — a shadowy pond.
    But what is beyond? What is beyond?

Beyond there is a long, long road.
    Bordered by ditches dark and wide.
Where a wayfarer with a heavy load
    Talks to the silence at his side.
Talks to the silence and talks to the trees.
But what is beyond, beyond all these?

Beyond is a house with a ruined wall,
    Where the long road enters an ancient wood.
And its rafters rot and sink and fall,
    And nothing disturbs its solitude,