Highway, where the Sun is wide;
Byway, where the lost ones hide,
Byway, where the Soul must hark,
Byway, dreadful with the Dark:
Can you nothing do with Man?
Doctor, Lawyer, Merchant, Chief,
Learns he nothing, even of grief?
Must it still be all his wonder
Some men soar, while some go under?
He has heard, and he has seen:
Make him know the thing you mean.
He has prayed since time began,—
He's so curious of the Plan!
He will pray you till he die,
For the Whence and for the Why;
Mad for wisdom — when‘ tis cheaper!
‘ Why should my way lead me deeper?
Am I, then, my Brother's keeper?’
Show him, Byway, if you can;
Lest he end as he began,
Rich and poor,— this beggar, Man.
But we did walk in Eden,
Eden, the garden of God;—
There, where no beckoning wonder
Of all the paths we trod,
No choiring sun-filled vineyard,
No voice of stream or bird,
But was some radiant oracle
And flaming with the Word!
Mine ears are dim with voices;
Mine eyes yet strive to see
The black things here to wonder at,
The mirth,— the misery.
Beloved, who wert with me there,
How came these shames to be?—
On what lost star are we?
Men say: The paths of gladness
By men were never trod!—
But we have walked in Eden,
Eden, the garden of God.