1
This is the road the Romans made,
This track half lost in the green hills,
Or fading in a forest-glade
'Mid violets and daffodils.
The years have fallen like dead leaves,
Unwept, uncounted, and unstayed
(Such as the autumn tempest thieves),
Since first this road the Romans made.
2
A miser lives within this house,
His patron saint's the gnawing mouse,
And there's no peace upon his brows.
A many ancient trees and thin
Do fold the place their shade within,
And moan, as for remembered sin.