Oh, what’s the way to Arcady? 
  Sir Poet, with the rusty coat,
  Quit mocking of the song-bird’s note. 
  How have you heart for any tune,
  You with the wayworn russet shoon? 
  Your scrip, a-swinging by your side,
  Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide. 
  I’ll brim it well with pieces red,
  If you will tell the way to tread.

  Oh, I am bound for Arcady,
  And if you but keep pace with me
  You tread the way to Arcady.

  And where away lies Arcady,
  And how long yet may the journey be?

  Ah, that (quoth he) I do not know—­
  Across the clover and the snow—­
  Across the frost, across the flowers—­
  Through summer seconds and winter hours.
  I’ve trod the way my whole life long,
    And know not now where it may be;
  My guide is but the stir to song.
  That tells me I can not go wrong,
    Or clear or dark the pathway be
    Upon the road to Arcady.

  But how shall I do who cannot sing? 
    I was wont to sing, once on a time—­
  There is never an echo now to ring
    Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme.

  ’Tis strange you cannot sing (quoth he),
  The folk all sing in Arcady.

  But how may he find Arcady
  Who hath not youth nor melody?

  What, know you not, old man (quoth he)—­
    Your hair is white, your face is wise—­
    That Love must kiss that Mortal’s eyes
  Who hopes to see fair Arcady?
  No gold can buy you entrance there;
  But beggared Love may go all bare—­
  No wisdom won with weariness;
  But Love goes in with Folly’s dress—­
  No fame that wit could ever win;
  But only Love may lead Love in
    To Arcady, to Arcady.

  Ah, woe is me, through all my days
    Wisdom and wealth I both have got,
  And fame and name, and great men’s praise;
    But Love, ah, Love!  I have it not.

  There was a time, when life was new—­
    But far away, and half forgot—­
  I only know her eyes were blue;
    But Love—­I fear I knew it not. 
  We did not wed, for lack of gold,
  And she is dead, and I am old. 
  All things have come since then to me,
  Save Love, ah, Love! and Arcady.

  Ah, then I fear we part (quoth he),
  My way’s for Love and Arcady.

  But you, you fare alone, like me;
    The gray is likewise in your hair. 
    What love have you to lead you there,
  To Arcady, to Arcady?

  Ah, no, not lonely do I fare;
    My true companion’s Memory.
  With Love he fills the Spring-time air;
    With Love he clothes the Winter tree.
  Oh, past this poor horizon’s