Over the sweet-smelling mountain-passes The clouds lie brightly curled; The wild-flowers cling to the crags and swing With cataract-dews impearled; And the way, the way that you choose this day Is the way to the end of the world.
It rolls from the golden long ago To the land that we ne'er shall find; And it's uphill here, but it's downhill there, For the road is wise and kind, And all rough places and cheerless faces Will soon be left behind.
Come, choose your road and away, away, We'll follow the gipsy sun, For it's soon, too soon to the end of the day, And the day is well begun; And the road rolls on through the heart of the May, And there's never a May but one.
There's a fir-wood here, and a dog-rose there, And a note of the mating dove; And a glimpse, maybe, of the warm blue sea, And the warm white clouds above; And warm to your breast in a tenderer nest Your sweetheart's little glove.
There's not much better to win, my lad, There's not much better to win! You have lived, you have loved, you have fought, you have proved The worth of folly and sin; So now come out of the City's rout, Come out of the dust and the din.
Come out,--a bundle and stick is all You'll need to carry along, If your heart can carry a kindly word, And your lips can carry a song; You may leave the lave to the keep o' the grave, If your lips can carry a song!
_Come, choose your road and away, my lad, Come, choose your road and away! We'll out of the town by the road's bright crown, As it dips to the sapphire day! All roads may meet at the world's end, But, hey for the heart of the May! Come, choose your road and away, dear lad, Come choose your road and away._
In a leafy lane of Devon There's a cottage that I know, Then a garden--then, a grey old crumbling wall, And the wall's the wall of heaven (Where I hardly care to go) And there isn't any fiery sword at all.
But I never went to heaven. There was right good reason why, For they sent a shining angel to me there, An angel, down in Devon, (Clad in muslin by the bye) With the halo of the sunshine on her hair.
Ah, whate'er the darkness covers, And whate'er we sing or say, Would you climb the wall of heaven an hour too soon If you knew a place for lovers Where the apple-blossoms stray Out of heaven to sway and whisper to the moon?