Poems (Bradford)/The end of the trail
THE END OF THE TRAIL.
A wild and wayward woodsy trail runs over the hill away Up thru the dark and whispering pines, whither I cannot say; But I shall follow this wanton trail wherever it may lead; Whether across the mountain high, or thru the flowery mead.
On and on past the bubbling spring, where myriad wild flowers grow; On and on round the foot of the hill, where the waves of the river show.And all along this wandering trail bloom flowers on either hand; The yellow snapdragon and blue lupine, and the gentian cover the land.
The purple monk's hood, straight and tall, glows in some darksome spot,And on the bank of a babbling brook blooms the forget-me-not. The Indian paint brush brightly gleams in a sunny forest glade,And in its glowing scarlet seems the brightest flower e'er made.
Then up the hill winds the little trail under the whispering pines; Up and up to the very top where the hack-ma-tack berry shines; Here I have come to the end of the trail; I pause on the very brink Of a dark and gloomy mountain tarn where wild beasts come to drink.
And I find that the woodsy, wayward trail that I have followed so dizzily, Mayhap was made by the timid deer, mayhap by the savage grizzly. And I must go back the way that I came, back to the haunts of men; But deep in my heart of heart, I know I shall find my trail again.