Gateway to the Classics: Display Item
Hilda Conkling

The Old Bridge

The old bridge has a wrinkled face.

He bends his back

For us to go over.

He moans and weeps

But we do not hear.

Sorrow stands in his face

For the heavy weight and worry

Of people passing.

The trees drop their leaves into the water;

The sky nods to him.

The leaves float down like small ships

On the blue surface

Which is the sky.

He is not always sad:

He smiles to see the ships go down

And the little children

Playing on the river banks.