I knew of a place where the sidewalk ends
Long before the street begins,
There the grass grew soft and white,
Or at least I think it did.
And the sun burned crimson bright; well,
Maybe not quite as bright as I remembered.
And there (was it there?) the moon-bird would rest from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
I know that I left the place where the smoke blew black
And the dark street winded and bent.
I’m sure I passed the pits where the asphalt flowers grew,
And I walked with a walk that was measured and slow.
But oh, how I try to recall the way; but my memories are slipping away.
Was it chalk white arrows that showed where to go? Alas, I could not say.
I can only hope that somewhere the children will mark, and the children will know,
And someone, somewhere, will find
The place where the sidewalk ends.