He looked to the hill which his steps had passed,
He looked to the slope where a brooklet purled,
He looked to the distance blue and vast
And "Ah," cried he, "what a fine, wide world!"

The youth passed on down the winding track
That led to the beckoning distance dim,
And though he carried but staff and pack,
The world and its giving belonged to him.




To Arcady


"TELL me, Singer, of the way
Winding down to Arcady?
Of the world's roads I am weary--
You, with song so brave and cheery,
Happy troubadour must be
On the way to Arcady?"

Pausing on a muted note,
Song forsook the Singer's throat,
"Friend," sighed he, "you come too late,
Once I could the way relate,
Once--but long ago; Ah me,
Far away is Arcady!"