Walden 1950

Thoreau, lank ghost, comes back to visit Concord, 
Finds the town like all towns, much the same—
A little less remote, less independent.
The cars hurl through from dawn to dawn toward Boston 
Paying out speed like a lifeline between towns.
Some of them pause to look at Alcott's house. 
No farmer studies Latin now; the language 
Of soil and market would confound a scholar; 
And any Yankee son with lonesome notions 
Would find life harder in the town today.
Under the trees by Walden Pond, the stalls 
Where summer pilgrims pause beside the road, 
Drown resinous night in busy rivalry
While the young make boisterous love along the shores.

He used to hear the locomotive whistle
Sound through the woods like a hawk's restless cry. 
Now the trains run through Concord night and day, 
And nobody stops to listen. The ghost might smile— 
The way a man in solitude would smile—
Remembering all the sounds that passed for sound 
A century ago.
                He would remain
Away from houses other ghosts might visit, 
Not having come to tell a thing or two 
Or lay a curse (what curse could frighten now?) 
No tapping on the windowpane for him 
Or twilight conversation in the streets 
With some bewildered townsman going home. 
If he had any errand, it would be
More likely curiosity of his own
About the human race, at least in Concord. 
He would not come so far from distant woods 
Merely to set them wondering again.