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.