The Bus
" UPSTAIRS," say the small boys. " Inside," says the bus conductor,
And how like it is, good lord, to us unhappy students.
Away with aspirations to the heights, into the safe stuffiness Below, none of their energies dissipated in wildness, None of the rough and tumble, none of the wild joy Nor the teased misery. Most of the boys forget,
'And when they're old, don't climb the stairs at all, Sit soberly squashed with an old woman by their side. But some remember, some go up,- and one or two Remember that they used to bark their knees At every step, that the stair was a swaying mast, That from the mast-head you could see—everything ; But never quite the same now. " Everything Is the leaves on the wet road, the tired pedestrians, The dog dodging the tyres.
And for us, too, It may be too late for the heights.
We are wise, but not so young, so eager, And the bus jolts too much conceit out of us, And one day we shall have no choice, inside or up.
One day we shall miss it altogether. INNES RITCHIS.
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