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About this Poem 

From A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass (Houghton Mifflin Company, 1912).


          I know a country laced with roads,
           They join the hills and they span the brooks,
          They weave like a shuttle between broad fields,
           And slide discreetly through hidden nooks.
          They are canopied like a Persian dome
           And carpeted with orient dyes.
          They are myriad-voiced, and musical,
           And scented with happiest memories.
          O Winding roads that I know so well,
           Every twist and turn, every hollow and hill!
          They are set in my heart to a pulsing tune
           Gay as a honey-bee humming in June.
          'T is the rhythmic beat of a horse's feet
           And the pattering paws of a sheep-dog bitch;
          'T is the creaking trees, and the singing breeze,
           And the rustle of leaves in the road-side ditch.

          A cow in a meadow shakes her bell
           And the notes cut sharp through the autumn air,
          Each chattering brook bears a fleet of leaves
           Their cargo the rainbow, and just now where
           The sun splashed bright on the road ahead
          A startled rabbit quivered and fled.
           O Uphill roads and roads that dip down!
          You curl your sun-spattered length along,
           And your march is beaten into a song
          By the softly ringing hoofs of a horse
           And the panting breath of the dogs I love.
          The pageant of Autumn follows its course
           And the blue sky of Autumn laughs above.

          And the song and the country become as one,
           I see it as music, I hear it as light;
          Prismatic and shimmering, trembling to tone,
           The land of desire, my soul's delight.
          And always it beats in my listening ears
           With the gentle thud of a horse's stride,
          With the swift-falling steps of many dogs,
           Following, following at my side.
          O Roads that journey to fairyland!
           Radiant highways whose vistas gleam,
          Leading me on, under crimson leaves,
           To the opaline gates of the Castles of Dream.

This poem is in the public domain. 

This poem is in the public domain. 

Amy Lowell

Amy Lowell

Born in 1874, Amy Lowell was deeply interested in and influenced by the Imagist movement and she received the Pulitzer Prize for her collection What's O'Clock.

by this poet

          It winds along the face of a cliff
           This path which I long to explore,
          And over it dashes a waterfall,
           And the air is full of the roar
          And the thunderous voice of waters which sweep
          In a silver torrent over some steep.

          It clears the path

I cut myself upon the thought of you
And yet I come back to it again and again,
A kind of fury makes me want to draw you out
From the dimness of the present
And set you sharply above me in a wheel of roses.
Then, going obviously to inhale their fragrance,
I touch the blade of you and

          Must all of worth be travailled for, and those
           Life's brightest stars rise from a troubled sea?
           Must years go by in sad uncertainty
          Leaving us doubting whose the conquering blows,
          Are we or Fate the victors? Time which shows
           All inner meanings will