The Wayside Cross

Which way shall I take?

Shouts a voice in the night

I’m a pil­grim awear­ied

And spent is my light;

And I seek for a pal­ace

That rests on the hill

But be­tween us

a stream

Lieth sull­en and chill.

Near

near thee

my son

Is the old way­side cross

Like a gray fri­ar cowled

In li­chens and moss;

And its cross­beam will point

To the bright gold­en span

That bridg­es the wa­ters

So safe­ly for man;

That bridg­es the wa­ters

So safe­ly for man.

Which way shall I take

For the bright gold­en span

That bridg­es the wa­ters

So safe­ly for man?

To the right? To the left?

Ah

me! if I knew—

The night is so dark

And the pass­ers so few.

See the lights from the pal­ace

In sil­ve­ry lines

How they pen­cil the hedg­es

And fruit lad­en vines—

My for­tune! my all!

For one tan­gled gleam

That sifts thro’ the lil­ies

And wastes on the stream.