Ah, Here It Is! The Sliding Rail That Marks The Old Remembered Spot, - The Gap That Struck Our School-Boy Trail, - The Crooked Path Across The Lot. It Left The Road By School And Church, A Pencilled Shadow, Nothing More, That Parted From The Silver-Birch And Ended At The Farm-House Door. No Line Or Compass Traced Its Plan; With Frequent Bends To Left Or Right, In Aimless, Wayward Curves It Ran, But Always Kept The Door In Sight. The Gabled Porch, With Woodbine Green, - The Broken Millstone At The Sill, - Though Many A Rood Might Stretch Between, The Truant Child Could See Them Still. No Rocks Across The Pathway Lie, - No Fallen Trunk Is O'Er It Thrown, - And Yet It Winds, We Know Not Why, And Turns As If For Tree Or Stone. Perhaps Some Lover Trod The Way With Shaking Knees And Leaping Heart, - And So It Often Runs Astray With Sinuous Sweep Or Sudden Start. Or One, Perchance, With Clouded Brain From Some Unholy Banquet Reeled, - And Since, Our Devious Steps Maintain His Track Across The Trodden Field. Nay, Deem Not Thus, - No Earthborn Will Could Ever Trace A Faultless Line; Our Truest Steps Are Human Still, - To Walk Unswerving Were Divine! Truants From Love, We Dream Of Wrath; Oh, Rather Let Us Trust The More! Through All The Wanderings Of The Path, We Still Can See Our Father'S Door!