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.