Many, many roads there are, warm and dusty brown,
Some go running to the hills, some turn into town,
Some lead far and far away, where nobody knows;
How I’d like to follow them, finding where each goes!
Once I found a pretty road, leading up a hill,
I thought each turn would be the last, and yet it wandered still;
Close beside a shady pool, up across a stile,
Then down beside a twist of stream, till I had gone a mile.
It was a fine and pleasant road, and as I walked I thought:
“It leads, perhaps, to stately lands which rich Sir John has bought:”
But down it went across a bridge, all tumbled and forlorn,
Then straight behind a farmer’s barn, where ducks were eating corn.
Many, many roads there are, warm and dusty brown;
Some go running to the hills, some turn into town;
Each and every one of them, I choose it as my friend,
For strange delights are waiting me, if I could find the end.