Road to Washington

By four the buses stretch along the pike.
The road is darker for their string of light.
The barren fields and snowy hills are black.
The  moon is down; no guiding stars in sight.

To Washington against a war again.
We read or talk or snooze; the hours creep.
The bus, I know, runs swiftly through the night.
And serves our stand for peace in winter deep.

I want to help the dawn.  I want to see
the spring green spread across the hilly dark.
Would daybreak come if we stayed home asleep?
At least each turnpike mile we see a mark.
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