So ride, soft-hearted child, over windy dale
And through the forlorn wood 'til ancient home
Lies far beyond forgetful dream of mist.
And by your riding seek new lands where hide
The truth of things behind the rough-stiched "seems"
That lie like faults in explanation's cloak.

The road is rough and may be chill, but on!
From rolling hills you ride to muddied cross
Of roads, at side of which there dwell the old.
Their shacks of wood like stubble on a chin;
There are some torches burning, most are out.
Yet from them learn that flesh is no concern
For there are worlds within too vast to know
That with a careful watering can grow
To dwarf the hardships of a life. But you
Must never linger: journey is your test,
And many are the hills must be traversed.

When find yourself at tower shaped of sand
On lonely shore astride a silver stream -
Yet holding court on every afternoon -
A knocking should you make, seeking the ones
Who guard ancestral wisdoms writ in ink.
On tales-that-stay drink heartily and sup,
For in their beauty labyrinthine there thrive
The hues and details both to paint the world.
Yet I implore you, feast but to your fill:
When greed grows in a man he must succumb.
There will be time to eat again, but go!
The weeping willows of the road miss you.

A spark from yonder forest gleefully gleams,
Some spot of grace in land of dying leaves:
The sapling children, all in flower dressed
With minstrel colors. Speaks with voice of lyre
To you does winsome child, and from him shine
The song-like airs of fancy, faith, and whim,
Un-understood in all your trudging road
Made clear in forest glen by wiser sight.
The knowledge of yourself can turn
Your sight to farthest reaching stars;
The knowledge of your land does bring
An eye-to-eye with all your kin;
But knowledge to **** knowledge lives,
Devoting life to seeking joy,
Windblown and free as songbird's singing breath.

O travel on, mine eldest son, come home!
'Tis fit that here from wanderings return
And rest your weary brow from all it knows.
Sleep deep, you eldest son of human race,
Sleep, sleep, forget your journey through the land.
And when the ripening sun does bloom at morn
All fresh will be your journey's start.

So ride, soft-hearted child, over windy dale
And through the forlorn wood 'til ancient home
Lies far beyond forgetful dream of mist.