Traveler's Turn

THERE is no lovelier land to know,
Bright with sand or pale with snow,
Than the land where I would go.

There is no happier place than where
Summer stays the turning year.
It is always summer there.

There summer long the blackbird swells,
Dropping his syllables in spells
As clear as water over shells.

Strange I should hunger so to take
The long road and drop the lake
Out of sight behind the brake,

And, traveler once more, should will,
Over brake and over hill,
To lift that water shining still.

Is there no hastier road to go,
Hard as sand and smooth as snow,
To the land I used to know?