I trust only in
the swallow's ways
the unknown hills
the unkept days.
I walk only where the willows lead
and step where only moths have stepped
and all the travelers I have met
have not my pace, nor ease of breath;
they pick their slopes and rocky climbs--
yet I -- not I--
no vain regrets.
And where might I be, in some coming age
when I look back, past field and range
to distant tracks, where nary a man hath strayed
since uncounted days, and I, amazed,
see all of myself, and what selves remain.