The Road

¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦

¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ the stars are out
and the breath of the night is sweet,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ time when wanderlust should seize ¦¦¦¦ my feet.
¦¦¦ I'm glad ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ to leave the splendour of out-of-doors for a human dwelling
place.
I ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ a vagabond who ¦¦¦¦¦¦ liked to
roam
¦¦¦ up and down the streets of the world and not to have a home:
The tramp who slept in your barn last night and left at break of
day
Will wander only until he finds another place to stay.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
He'll sit on the grass and take his ease so long as the sun is high,
But when it is dark he wants a roof ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
And the only reason a road is good, as every wanderer knows,
Is just because of the homes, ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ to which it goes.
They say that life is a highway and its milestones
are the years,
And now and then there's a toll-gate where you buy your way with
tears.
It's a rough road ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ and it stretches broad and far,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ leads to a golden Town where golden Houses are.


(Blackout of Roofs by Joyce Kilmer)