It's when you notice you're on the road,
Charging some end with harrowing choice,
The mirage unfolds; a mead-hall bright,
Born from a storm and ought be your load
The stones ask out if you dare to rejoice

Then stay the path, rock after rock,
As futile you know it may be
And rest but with wonder at what it was
That led you this road to see,
Try to banish the stones you think mock,
For Roving wanted to make you free.