Wanderers

Love is a Rome, and many roads there be
Leading to that great City of Delight,
Old — new — religious — everything but free —
A dream by day — a solid town at night.
All roads are good for entrance, none for flight,
And every traveller sees what he would see.

The roads lead hither over many a hill,
Through countries parted by the salt sea-foam,
And many names they bear — Affliction still
The safest — but at length they all lead home.
Accuse us not of wandering at our will!
Life's clearest voice it is that bids us roam.