When you leave the highway
Look for no sign,
But the first, least by-way
That chokes your throat, is mine.

Follow three field's reaches
Till a sonnet's found,
Where, beyond the beeches,
Sky touches ground.

Along the pasture's shoulder,
Where the path curves its arm,
And the hill-throat wears a boulder,
You will find my farm.

The tall hill-girl wears it
At her girdle's height,
Pendant from her chain of stones,
Matrix in the light.

Her skirts's edge is clover,
The sweet-fern's her blouse,
And the cloud-shadows cover
Her brow, and my house.

There an elfin sentry,
With bayonet of grass,
Will give you poet's entry
On a notched pass;

Your wild-name will be on it,
And, at your journey's end,
You will ring the sonnet
At the door of your friend.