Travel on, methought, than so!
Sheep for sheep-paths! braver children climb and creep where they would go.
And the poets wander, said I,
Over places all as rude!
Bold Rinaldo’s lovely lady
Sat to meet him in a wood—
Rosalinda, like a fountain, laughed out pure with solitude.
And if Chaucer had not traveled
Through a forest by a well,
He had never dream’d nor marveled