The Old Marlboro Road Henry David Thoreau Where they once dug for money  But never found any;                    Where sometimes Martial Miles                    Singly files,                    And Elijah Wood,                    I fear for no good.                    No other man                    Save Elisha Dugan—                    O man of wild habits,                    Partridges and rabbits,                    Who hast no cares                    Only to set snares,                    Who liv’st all alone,                    Close to the bone;                    And where life is sweetest                    Constantly eatest.                    When the spring stirs my blood                    With the instinct to travel,                    I can get enough gravel                    On the Old Marlboro Road.                    Nobody repairs it,                    For nobody wears it;                    It is a living way,                    As the christians say,                    Not many there be                    Who enter therein,                    Only the guests of the                    Irishman Quin.                    What is it, what is it                    But a direction out there,                    And the bare possibility                    Of going somewhere?                    Great guide boards of stone                    But travellers none.                    Cenotaphs of the towns                    Named on their crowns.                    It is worth going to see                    What you might be.                    What king                    Did the thing,                    I am still wondering—                    Set up how or when,                    By what select men,                    Gourgas or Lee,                    Clark or Darby?                    They’re a great endeavor                    To be something forever.                    Blank tablets of stone,                    Where a traveller might groan,                    And in one sentence                    Grave all that is known.                    Which another might read,                    In his extreme need,                    I know one or two                    Lines that would do,                    Literature that might stand                    All over the land,                    Which a man could remember                    Till next December,                    And read again in the spring,                    After the thawing.                    If with fancy unfurled                    You leave your abode,                    You may go round the world                    By the old Marlboro Road.

The Creek Where I Live Robert Lynds The creek where I live, Is decidedly good, It wanders though fields, And it comes from the wood. It curls round brushes, And heads for the rushes If ever I’m dry, I know where it gushes. Its gravel is grey, And its mud earthy brown, It tickles my toes, As I gallop around. If ever I wander, Far from its shores, Where the grey earth is paved, And the weather’s in doors, Then let me remember this creek I once knew, When the weather was bright, And the water was blue. Now here comes my mother, With a chore I must do, I’m off to the grocer for paper and glue. I whistle while walking, And praise my foresight, For I take not the highway, With child’s delight, I wander the river, On my way, to the store. My feet my be soggy, But my spirit’s not sore. One could travel the world, The way the drop takes, And follow the river, On the way to the lakes. And never see once, A highway so fair, As the sand in the creek, That the water lays bare. The sand it is soft, And of ruts its washed clean, By the strong winter currents, That precede the green. The bank is quite steep, And I climb it with care, And make it to earth, Of which car are aware, I buy my self paper, And I buy my self glue, And I talk to the merchant, And pay him his due. Won’t my mother be proud, That I did as was asked, Though I walked half a mile, In the river’s green grass.