The path is made for them who walk alone,
Whose God is Nature, and the woods their creed,
To follow blindly where the path may lead.
No stern surveyor made it thus and so,
Nor north nor south nor east nor west it tends.
It dips to kiss the pool where lilies grow,
It rises joyously where ivy bends
And meets in fond embraces with its friends.
Through brooding branches and embroidered leaves
The sunshine filters in a golden rain,