Up the old hill to the old house again Where fifty years ago the friend was young Who should be waiting somewhere there among Old things that least remembered most remain, He toiled on with a pleasure that was
To think how soon asunder would be flung The curtain half a century had hung Between the two ambitions they had slain. They dredged an hour for words, and then were done. “Good-bye!… You have the same old weather-vane— Your little horse that’s always on the run.” And all the way down back to the next train, Down the old hill to the old road again, It seemed as if the little horse had won.
