Now The Joys Of The Road Are Chiefly These: A Crimson Touch On The Hard-Wood Trees; A Vagrant'S Morning Wide And Blue, In Early Fall When The Wind Walks, Too; A Shadowy Highway Cool And Brown, Alluring Up And Enticing Down From Rippled Water To Dappled Swamp, From Purple Glory To Scarlet Pomp; The Outward Eye, The Quiet Will, And The Striding Heart From Hill To Hill; The Tempter Apple Over The Fence; The Cobweb Bloom On The Yellow Quince; The Palish Asters Along The Wood,-- A Lyric Touch Of The Solitude; An Open Hand, An Easy Shoe. And A Hope To Make The Day Go Through,-- Another To Sleep With, And A Third To Wake Me Up At The Voice Of A Bird; The Resonant Far-Listening Morn, And The Hoarse Whisper Of The Corn; The Crickets Mourning Their Comrades Lost, In The Night'S Retreat From The Gathering Frost; (Or Is It Their Slogan, Plaintive And Shrill, As They Beat On Their Corselets, Valiant Still?) A Hunger Fit For The Kings Of The Sea, And A Loaf Of Bread For Dickon And Me; A Thirst Like That Of The Thirsty Sword, And A Jug Of Cider On The Board; An Idle Noon, A Bubbling Spring, The Sea In The Pine-Tops Murmuring; A Scrap Of Gossip At The Ferry; A Comrade Neither Glum Nor Merry, Asking Nothing, Revealing Naught, But Minting His Words From A Fund Of Thought, A Keeper Of Silence Eloquent, Needy, Yet Royally Well Content, Of The Mettled Breed, Yet Abhorring Strife, And Full Of The Mellow Juice Of Life; A Taster Of Wine, With An Eye For A Maid, Never Too Bold, And Never Afraid, Never Heart-Whole, Never Heart-Sick, (These Are The Things I Worship In Dick) No Fidget And No Reformer, Just A Calm Observer Of Ought And Must, A Lover Of Books, But A Reader Of Man, No Cynic And No Charlatan, Who Never Defers And Never Demands, But, Smiling, Takes The World In His Hands,-- Seeing It Good As When God First Saw And Gave It The Weight Of His Will For Law. And O The Joy That Is Never Won, But Follows And Follows The Journeying Sun, By Marsh And Tide, By Meadow And Stream, A Will-O'-The-Wind, A Light-O'-Dream, Delusion Afar, Delight Anear, From Morrow To Morrow, From Year To Year, A Jack-O'-Lantern, A Fairy Fire, A Dare, A Bliss, And A Desire! The Racy Smell Of The Forest Loam, When The Stealthy, Sad-Heart Leaves Go Home; (O Leaves, O Leaves, I Am One With You, Of The Mould And The Sun And The Wind And The Dew!) The Broad Gold Wake Of The Afternoon; The Silent Fleck Of The Cold New Moon; The Sound Of The Hollow Sea'S Release From Stormy Tumult To Starry Peace; With Only Another League To Wend; And Two Brown Arms At The Journey'S End! These Are The Joys Of The Open Road-- For Him Who Travels Without A Load.