I thought of the heavy mystery That troubled me yesterday, It seemed I never could solve it Or drive it completely away. And I thought of the thousands of moments When each, to oneself stands alone, Thrown back on oneself for the answer The answer that never comes home.
As I pondered each sad broken number The raindrops made on the pane, The shine came to me, came in bundles, For I heard the song in the rain. Shine is a guest we have often Grief being seldom is great. I have no quarrel with mystery I have no quarrel with fate.
I’m going out where breezes blowing round Make trim kept acres look half country and half town. Where March winds tossed and blew the leaves away Into the fences corner yesterday. Oaks that never dropt last summer’s leaves at all Were coaxed at last today to leave them fall. I’m going out to this street’s very end, Where city atmosphere and country spaces blend, And hear the whirring wings of lonely larks, That circle like burnt embers o’er the park.
I’ll have my hair in torrents blowing wild About my pallid features like some child, That had its romping days of childish fun Most strangled e’er they ever had begun. I’d like to walk around a field that’s barr’d From other pleasant places winter scarr’d. Where drifts have filled the corners there I know Is still a faint suggestion of late snow. So when your luncheon hour and mine comes round, I will have gone beyond the edge of town.
The road that goes to Ingleside Can’t be described at all, ’Tis sweet beyond the telling And the trees are paces tall.
Spring o’ year at Ingleside Is pungent sweet of breath. And for its rainfilled, tumbling streams I’m homesick unto death.
Confusing flowers fill the wood Like nodding plumes of flame. The like of which one’s never seen And no one knows the name.
The hills that look on Ingleside Are emerald to the brow. And I would give a thousand dreams If I could see them now.
Once on a time there was a road Went winding by my door. And fain I was to travel it In search of golden store.
And O! how oft with heavy heart The weary miles I trod, And many a sorry tale I learned Upon the open road.
Often times I was made glad And oft my heart was sore. For folk who traveled on the road That winded by my door.