Caroling Dusk/The Ways o' Men

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THE WAYS O’ MEN

’Tis queer, it is, the ways o’ men,Their comin’s and their goin’s;For there’s the grey road, The straight roadWith the grey dust liftin’ With ev’ry stepAnd the little roads off-flingin’.
Maybe it’s a bit of a sly fieldThat crooks a finger to themAnd sends them to the turnin’;Or the round firm bosom Of a little hillAcallin’ to them, them with their heads   That heavy;Or maybe it’s the black look Given out of the tail of the eye;Or a white word, wingin’;Maybe it’s only the back of a little tot’s neck In the sunlight; ​Or the red lips of a woman Parting slow. . . . Sure there’s no tellin’.
One I saw goin’ towards a white star At the edge of a daffydill sky, Its lights kissin’ straight into his eyes.Maybe it’s a gold pieceTo be taken from another In the dark;Or the neat place between the ribsWaitin’ for the knifeThat one comes after carryin’ for it.’Tis few, it is, that goes with the grey road The straight road All the way,With the grey dust liftin’ at ev’ry step.
’Tis queer, it is, the ways o’ men,With a level look at you, or a crooked As they be passin’.        Pouf!Sure, ’tis so fast they’re goin’,Does it matter about the turnin’s?

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