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?