The seasoned, foot-worn trav'ler often knows
The forest's branching paths: its tangled web;
He knows to where each path—each journey—goes,
For they with erstwhile steps he once did tread.
In springs gone by with his own feet he learned
Which paths were bright with hope and which brought pain,
And where they branched and twisted—where they turned—
All this to know which paths to walk again.
Yet even on the present winter's eve,
His thoughts do wander from his journey's end,
And he from light thence takes his thoughtless leave:
On pain-filled paths he once again doth wend.
He knows inside which paths will bring him joy,
Yet why can't he his feet on these employ?
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