Where the trail, young traveler, divides,
Thy fate, unlike thyself,
Has long already taken sides,
And waits but for thyself.
There seems a certain reticence
All sudden in thy step—
Ah! Subtle is the evidence
Of fear to now misstep.
To the left, ere long, the land reposes,
In a plain you plainly see,
But to the right, a road of roses,
Whose end you cannot see.
Ah, would thou not, young man, traverse
Where thou might pluck in passion
The flower of the thorny curse,
And make that rose thy ration?
It will bruise thy heel, young man, thy heel,
For the kiss thy soul proposes,
But thou had chosen such to feel—
To know the road of roses.
