The rock men stand along the sides,

the guardians of the road, 

and we drive on beneath the trees

unconscious of their load.

They lift the hillside from the earth

where deer and rabbits stray;

they block the mud from sliding down

and covering our way.

So should you round the bend sometime

and glimpse a flash of white,

some spectre of the netherworld

that puts your heart to flight,

please don’t turn and speed away.

It isn’t what you feared. 

‘Tis winter, and the stony men 

have each one grown his beard.