The Road to Mount Tom

THE blue hills loom through morning mist.
The wet road gleams like amethyst.

What color is the road to-day?
Thin amethyst with a silver soul,
Or lavender in a veil of gray,
Or crystal in a cloud’s control?
From goldenrod to meadow-sweet
It takes the brief hill, running fleet
Between the morning-glory vines
And past the primrose hedge that shines
With clusters pale of gilded dew.
Where flowers of chicory hold and blue
Repeat the sky along the ground,
And black-eyed Susans golden-gowned
Lean shrewdly for the gossips’ view.
It shrugs and nods with kindly smile,
And with the morning on its face
Slips down another silvery mile
Through bramble blossoms and queen’s-lace.
It leaps to follow the clear river
And laughs to see the ripples shiver,
But there is depth in its gray eyes
Within the shade where birches quiver.
Now with wild roses in its hair
It springs along the mountain stair,
And climbs in sensitive surprise
Closer and closer to the skies.
The cool green tunnels of the wood,
The graybeard rocks in solitude,
Wonder to see the road go by
Like a swift spirit wild and shy.
For it has traveled fast and far
With the steep azure for a goal;
And yonder where great spaces are
Even a road may claim a soul
Wherein remembered flowers gleam,
Lest all its journey fade to dream.