Whether he stood this side or that of the hill,
The mist being still on all, with little pause
He chose the easier way, the downward way.
Legs were dog-tired already, only the road,
The slow descent with some relief of guidance
Maintained his shambling five miles to the hour
Coloured with day dreams. Then a finger post
Broke through the mist, pointing into his face,
But when he stopped to read gave him no comfort.
Seventeen miles to—somewhere, God knows what!