Marlboro' and Waterloo and Trafalgar,
    Tuileries, Talavera, Valenciennes,
    Were strange names all, and all familiar;

    For down their streets I went, early and late
    (Is there a street where I have never been
    Of all those hundreds, narrow, skyless, straight?)--

    Early and late, they were my woods and meadows;
    The rain upon their dust my summer smell;
    Their scant herb and brown sparrows and harsh shadows

    Were all my spring. Was there another spring?
    I knew their noisy desolation well,
    Drinking it up as a child drinks everything,

    Knowing no other world than brick and stone,
    With one rich memory of the earth all bright.
    Now all is fallen into oblivion--

    All that I was, in years of school and play,
    Things that I hated, things that were delight,
    Are all forgotten, or shut all away

    Behind a creaking door that opens slow.
    But there's a child that walks those streets of war,
    Hearing his running footsteps as they go

    Echoed from house to house, and wondering
    At Marlboro', Waterloo and Trafalgar;
    And at night, when the yellow gas lamps fling

    Unsteady shadows, singing for company;
    Yet loving the lighted dark, and any star
    Caught by sharp roofs in a narrow net of sky.

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