Said a traveller by the way Pausing, “What hast thou to say, Flower by the dusty road, That would ease a mortal's load?”
Traveller, hearken unto me! I will tell thee how to see Beauties in the earth and sky Hidden from the careless eye.
I will tell thee how to hear Nature's music wild and clear,— Songs of midday and of dark Such as many never mark,
Lyrics of creation sung Ever since the world was young. And thereafter thou shalt know Neither weariness nor woe.
Thou shalt see the dawn unfold Artistries of rose and gold, And the sunbeams on the sea Dancing with the wind for glee.
The red lilies of the moors Shall be torches on the floors, Where the field-lark lifts his cry To rejoice the passer-by,
In a wide world rimmed with blue Lovely as when time was new. And thereafter thou shalt fare Light of foot and free from care.
I will teach thee how to find Lost enchantments of the mind All about thee, never guessed By indifferent unrest.
Thy distracted thought shall learn Patience from the roadside fern, And a sweet philosophy From the flowering locust tree,—
While thy heart shall not disdain The consolation of the rain. Not an acre but shall give Of its strength to help thee live.
With the many-wintered sun Shall thy hardy course be run. And the bright new moon shall be A lamp to thy felicity.
When green-mantled spring shall come Past thy door with flute and drum, And when over wood and swamp Autumn trails her scarlet pomp,
No misgiving shalt thou know, Passing glad to rise and go. So thy days shall be unrolled Like a wondrous cloth of gold.
When gray twilight with her star Makes a heaven that is not far, Touched with shadows and with dreams, Thou shalt hear the woodland streams
Singing through the starry night Holy anthems of delight. So the ecstasy of earth Shall refresh thee as at birth,
And thou shalt arise each morn Radiant with a soul reborn. And this wisdom of a day None shall ever take away.
What the secret, what the clew The wayfarer must pursue? Only one thing he must have Who would share these transports brave.
Love within his heart must dwell Like a bubbling roadside well, For a spring to quicken thought, Else my counsel comes to naught.
For without that quickening trust We are less than roadside dust. This, O traveller, is my creed,— All the wisdom of the weed!
Then the traveller set his pack Once more on his dusty back, And trudged on for many a mile Fronting fortune with a smile.
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