The great roads are all grown over br That seemed so firm and white. br The deep black forests have covered them. br How should I walk aright? br How should I thread these tangled mazes, br Or grope to that far off light? br I stumble round the thickets, and they turn me br Back to the thickets and the night. br br Yet, sometimes, at a word, an elfin pass-word, br (O, thin, deep, sweet with beaded rain!) br There shines, through a mist of ragged-robins, br The old lost April-coloured lane, br That leads me from myself; for, at a whisper, br Where the strong limbs thrust in vain, br At a breath, if my heart help another heart, br The path shines out for me again. br br A thin thread, a rambling lane for lovers br To the light of the world's one May, br Where the white dropping flakes may wet our faces br As we lift them to the bloom-bowed spray: br O Master, shall we ask Thee, then, for high-roads, br Or down upon our knees and pray br That Thou wilt ever lose us in Thy little lanes, br And lead us by a wandering way.