The king's highway is thronged with folk,
All manner of men go up and down:
Some walk in glee, some bear the yoke
And burden of the teeming town,
While others press, they know not why,
Hot-foot with hope against the sky.

But, oh, along the by-lanes dim,
Far from the murmur and the fret,
Go those whom God would keep with Him:
Lovers and bards, who have not yet
Forsworn the high and holy things,
Nor quite forgot the use of wings.

Lovers, and bards and dreamers, who
Prefer the stars, the quiet pools,
The grace of trees, the tender dew,—
To clamor that bewitches fools …
The king's highway, it lures the throng,—
But, oh, the by-roads and their song!