The Great Roads Are All Grown Over That Seemed So Firm And White. The Deep Black Forests Have Covered Them. How Should I Walk Aright? How Should I Thread These Tangled Mazes, Or Grope To That Far Off Light? I Stumble Round The Thickets, And They Turn Me Back To The Thickets And The Night. Yet, Sometimes, At A Word, An Elfin Pass-Word, (O, Thin, Deep, Sweet With Beaded Rain!) There Shines, Through A Mist Of Ragged-Robins, The Old Lost April-Coloured Lane, That Leads Me From Myself; For, At A Whisper, Where The Strong Limbs Thrust In Vain, At A Breath, If My Heart Help Another Heart, The Path Shines Out For Me Again. A Thin Thread, A Rambling Lane For Lovers To The Light Of The World'S One May, Where The White Dropping Flakes May Wet Our Faces As We Lift Them To The Bloom-Bowed Spray: O Master, Shall We Ask Thee, Then, For High-Roads, Or Down Upon Our Knees And Pray That Thou Wilt Ever Lose Us In Thy Little Lanes, And Lead Us By A Wandering Way.