THE LANDMARK

Was that the landmark? What,— the foolish well

Whose wave, low down, I did not stoop to drink,

But sat and flung the pebbles from its brink

In sport to send its imaged skies pell-mell,

( And mine own image, had I noted well! )

Was that my point of turning?— I had thought

The stations of my course should rise unsought,

As altar-stone or ensigned citadel.

But lo! the path is missed, I must go back,

And thirst to drink when next I reach the spring

Which once I stained, which since may have grown black.

Yet though no light be left nor bird now sing

As here I turn, I'll thank God, hastening,

That the same goal is still on the same track.