Sic Transit

SOMETIMES I wake and hear, far in the night,
The clip-clop of an old horse down the street,
And bless him for the music of his feet,
And that he moves without his tail alight,
His eyes aglare, and noises in his nose;
That slowly, at an honorable pace,
Drawing his ash-cart, decently he goes —
As fits the remnant of a splendid race.

My grandson’s grandson somewhere in the
rack
Of time will wake one night and hear, below
The levels where the winking air-lines glow,
A sound as of a beetle on its back,
And smile, and bless the last old motor car
Rattling to join the horse and dinosaur.