The Crooked Footpath

Ah, here it is! the sliding rail     That marks the old remembered spot, -     The gap that struck our school-boy trail, -     The crooked path across the lot.     It left the road by school and church,     A pencilled shadow, nothing more,     That parted from the silver-birch     And ended at the farm-house door.     No line or compass traced its plan;     With frequent bends to left or right,     In aimless, wayward curves it ran,     But always kept the door in sight.     The gabled porch, with woodbine green, -     The broken millstone at the sill, -     Though many a rood might stretch between,     The truant child could see them still.     No rocks across the pathway lie, -     No fallen trunk is o'er it thrown, -     And yet it winds, we know not why,     And turns as if for tree or stone.     Perhaps some lover trod the way     With shaking knees and leaping heart, -     And so it often runs astray     With sinuous sweep or sudden start.     Or one, perchance, with clouded brain     From some unholy banquet reeled, -     And since, our devious steps maintain     His track across the trodden field.     Nay, deem not thus, - no earthborn will     Could ever trace a faultless line;     Our truest steps are human still, -     To walk unswerving were divine!     Truants from love, we dream of wrath;     Oh, rather let us trust the more!     Through all the wanderings of the path,     We still can see our Father's door!