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?