May o' the year, and any old where
Away from the city's reach—
On the windswept hill where the stars stand still,
Or racing the wave-wet beach;
Filling our souls with the soul of the rose,
Laughing at sorrow and care,
With a shepherd's crook and a well-thumbed book
On the road to Any Old Where!
Away from the city's reach—
On the windswept hill where the stars stand still,
Or racing the wave-wet beach;
Filling our souls with the soul of the rose,
Laughing at sorrow and care,
With a shepherd's crook and a well-thumbed book
On the road to Any Old Where!
LEFT BEHIND
TWO set out in the amethyst dawning
Following ever the wake of the sun,
Eager with hope for the journey before them,
Laughing at thought of summits unwon.
Following ever the wake of the sun,
Eager with hope for the journey before them,
Laughing at thought of summits unwon.
Steep grew the path, but they sang as they journeyed;
Grief seemed a phantom, disaster a wraith.
Lightly they counted the toil and the burden,
Hand clasping hand in the fullness of faith.
Grief seemed a phantom, disaster a wraith.
Lightly they counted the toil and the burden,
Hand clasping hand in the fullness of faith.
But sudden, far up where stones were the sharpest
One pressed on before and passed out of sight,
Lost in the shrouding white mist of the mountain,
And one was alone in the on-coming night—
One pressed on before and passed out of sight,
Lost in the shrouding white mist of the mountain,
And one was alone in the on-coming night—
Alone, and the summit yet dim in the distance,
Alone, and the pathway grown rugged and bare,
Calling and hearkening, and getting no answer,
Stumbling and falling—and no one to care.
Alone, and the pathway grown rugged and bare,
Calling and hearkening, and getting no answer,
Stumbling and falling—and no one to care.
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