WHETHER to Syon or to Eldorado, Whether to six feet of cool brown loam, Whether to hell or home, Or to long deep sleep in a gold meadow Where the waters break forth for who are sick; And there is singing over against noon, When burning bees hover and croon, And you may meet One walking by the bushes thick; Or shall there be none of this? Save we hunted, we hunted, like the smoke of wind; Vapour-things that seek and never find Through bluer alleys where no starlight is, That are passes of the last dark hills; Well, man, that is no matter for our care, It is no matter where The road runs counter to our little wills. For since we have our metalled road and rough Slung over the high country or the low, Man, let us sweat, and go One more stade before sundown; is't not enough? |