The Rail Fence
T
HE old rail fence has zigzagged for so long
Down hill and hollow, through the woods
and out,
It is like some beloved familiar song
Tuned to stout laughter—it is like a shout
When maples blaze through heady autumn days,
And bittersweet hangs bright with ruddy fire;
And now, alas, because of modern ways,
The old fence yields to barbed and shining wire.
No squirrel again will frisk from rail to rail,
Its bushy tail alight with shadowed flame;
The blood-red creeper’s tentacles will fail
With the old wood gone; and oh, there is no name
For the loss to man when old things are no more,
And nothing is as lovely as before.
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