The road glows rose.
And, as it goes toward the horizon,
he takes the low road with leaves gold,
grown, a man, a boy only one spring ago.

On the low, rose, road, where the leaves blow gold,
he shall traverse slowly and climb in time-
when the road rises, a gradual incline,
gentle to the soul.

A perfect road would rise just right.
It would never leave an explorer tired.
Such a road would absorb the rain,
so that never in mud would his boots be mired.

Such a road would not be lonely.
The ease of the journey would appeal to many.
Purple blooms that release a sugared perfume,
would attract a joyful crowd and a merry friend.

To such a road such a man would want no end.
On such a road all of his thoughts he'd spend.

And what if there be something more astounding,
far beyond the man's endless bounding?
Would he strive to try and seek
that thing aloft a mountain's peak?

Would you choose to struggle if you were content?
Even if your soul could know love more brilliant?
Perhaps, when God mapped our roads, this was all he meant.