A Roadway
Let those who will stride on their barren roads
And prick themselves to haste with self—made goads,
Unheeding, as they struggle day by day,
If flowers be sweet or skies be blue or gray:
For me, the lone, cool way by purling brooks,
The solemn quiet of the woodland nooks,
A song—bird somewhere trilling sadly gay,
A pause to pick a flower beside the way.
