THE PATH
It winds its way along the shaded hill,Disdaining distance, seeking only ease.It turns aside to linger by a rill,It climbs a slope to rest beneath the treesOr breathe the perfume of a Summer breeze.Here time is nothing, haste a thing unknown—The hot, straight highway for the craze of speed;The path is made for them who walk alone,Whose God is Nature, and the woods their creed,To follow blindly where the path may lead.No stern surveyor made it thus and so,Nor north nor south nor east nor west it tends.It dips to kiss the pool where lilies grow,It rises joyously where ivy bendsAnd meets in fond embraces with its friends.Through brooding branches and embroidered leavesThe sunshine filters in a golden rain,Transforms the tufted weeds to shining sheaves,The tangled grass to waving harvest grain,The marshy muskeg to a purple plain.This is a path of velvet from the loomOf droning Summer. Never human handWove such a pattern, bright with rose abloomAlong its border. Never artist plannedThis brilliant carpet flung across the land.Now princes leave their castles, kings their thrones,And unattended walk these sylvan aisles.They pause to muse beside this heap of stonesMore beautiful than all the granite pilesReared with slow labor on their ample miles.Sweet, solemn splendor of the silent wood,More dear you are than all the haunts of men;For never mortal in your presence stoodAnd listened to the whisper of the glenBut songs forgotten sang to him again.Perhaps it is his mother’s voice he hears,The faint reëcho of her cradle croonThat sends him groping down the ended yearsTo find again some long-discarded boon,To find again some long-departed June.Then, by the magic of the shade and sun,Of tree and rose and brook and verdant sod,This world shall seem to be that other oneWhere feet walk never, yet where souls have trod—And he shall hold communion with his God.
It winds its way along the shaded hill,Disdaining distance, seeking only ease.It turns aside to linger by a rill,It climbs a slope to rest beneath the treesOr breathe the perfume of a Summer breeze.Here time is nothing, haste a thing unknown—The hot, straight highway for the craze of speed;The path is made for them who walk alone,Whose God is Nature, and the woods their creed,To follow blindly where the path may lead.No stern surveyor made it thus and so,Nor north nor south nor east nor west it tends.It dips to kiss the pool where lilies grow,It rises joyously where ivy bendsAnd meets in fond embraces with its friends.Through brooding branches and embroidered leavesThe sunshine filters in a golden rain,Transforms the tufted weeds to shining sheaves,The tangled grass to waving harvest grain,The marshy muskeg to a purple plain.This is a path of velvet from the loomOf droning Summer. Never human handWove such a pattern, bright with rose abloomAlong its border. Never artist plannedThis brilliant carpet flung across the land.Now princes leave their castles, kings their thrones,And unattended walk these sylvan aisles.They pause to muse beside this heap of stonesMore beautiful than all the granite pilesReared with slow labor on their ample miles.Sweet, solemn splendor of the silent wood,More dear you are than all the haunts of men;For never mortal in your presence stoodAnd listened to the whisper of the glenBut songs forgotten sang to him again.Perhaps it is his mother’s voice he hears,The faint reëcho of her cradle croonThat sends him groping down the ended yearsTo find again some long-discarded boon,To find again some long-departed June.Then, by the magic of the shade and sun,Of tree and rose and brook and verdant sod,This world shall seem to be that other oneWhere feet walk never, yet where souls have trod—And he shall hold communion with his God.
It winds its way along the shaded hill,Disdaining distance, seeking only ease.It turns aside to linger by a rill,It climbs a slope to rest beneath the treesOr breathe the perfume of a Summer breeze.
It winds its way along the shaded hill,
Disdaining distance, seeking only ease.
It turns aside to linger by a rill,
It climbs a slope to rest beneath the trees
Or breathe the perfume of a Summer breeze.
Here time is nothing, haste a thing unknown—The hot, straight highway for the craze of speed;The path is made for them who walk alone,Whose God is Nature, and the woods their creed,To follow blindly where the path may lead.
Here time is nothing, haste a thing unknown—
The hot, straight highway for the craze of speed;
The path is made for them who walk alone,
Whose God is Nature, and the woods their creed,
To follow blindly where the path may lead.
No stern surveyor made it thus and so,Nor north nor south nor east nor west it tends.It dips to kiss the pool where lilies grow,It rises joyously where ivy bendsAnd meets in fond embraces with its friends.
No stern surveyor made it thus and so,
Nor north nor south nor east nor west it tends.
It dips to kiss the pool where lilies grow,
It rises joyously where ivy bends
And meets in fond embraces with its friends.
Through brooding branches and embroidered leavesThe sunshine filters in a golden rain,Transforms the tufted weeds to shining sheaves,The tangled grass to waving harvest grain,The marshy muskeg to a purple plain.
Through brooding branches and embroidered leaves
The sunshine filters in a golden rain,
Transforms the tufted weeds to shining sheaves,
The tangled grass to waving harvest grain,
The marshy muskeg to a purple plain.
This is a path of velvet from the loomOf droning Summer. Never human handWove such a pattern, bright with rose abloomAlong its border. Never artist plannedThis brilliant carpet flung across the land.
This is a path of velvet from the loom
Of droning Summer. Never human hand
Wove such a pattern, bright with rose abloom
Along its border. Never artist planned
This brilliant carpet flung across the land.
Now princes leave their castles, kings their thrones,And unattended walk these sylvan aisles.They pause to muse beside this heap of stonesMore beautiful than all the granite pilesReared with slow labor on their ample miles.
Now princes leave their castles, kings their thrones,
And unattended walk these sylvan aisles.
They pause to muse beside this heap of stones
More beautiful than all the granite piles
Reared with slow labor on their ample miles.
Sweet, solemn splendor of the silent wood,More dear you are than all the haunts of men;For never mortal in your presence stoodAnd listened to the whisper of the glenBut songs forgotten sang to him again.
Sweet, solemn splendor of the silent wood,
More dear you are than all the haunts of men;
For never mortal in your presence stood
And listened to the whisper of the glen
But songs forgotten sang to him again.
Perhaps it is his mother’s voice he hears,The faint reëcho of her cradle croonThat sends him groping down the ended yearsTo find again some long-discarded boon,To find again some long-departed June.
Perhaps it is his mother’s voice he hears,
The faint reëcho of her cradle croon
That sends him groping down the ended years
To find again some long-discarded boon,
To find again some long-departed June.
Then, by the magic of the shade and sun,Of tree and rose and brook and verdant sod,This world shall seem to be that other oneWhere feet walk never, yet where souls have trod—And he shall hold communion with his God.
Then, by the magic of the shade and sun,
Of tree and rose and brook and verdant sod,
This world shall seem to be that other one
Where feet walk never, yet where souls have trod—
And he shall hold communion with his God.