The road that leads to Braemar winds ever in and out.
It wanders here and dawdles there, and trips and turns about
Like a child upon an errand that play has put to rout.
By the road that leads to Braemar, the greybeard poplars stand,
And on the sky's pale tapestry are broidered in a band
With the flashing frosty needle that gleams in winter's hand.
There are haggard apple-orchards on either side the way,
That once flung scented largesse to every summer's day
To mingle with the incense where hot pine-needles lay.
And down the road's long vista the shadows spread like wings
As lightly spun and purple as the shade the evening brings
For circling children's eyelids round with mystic drowsy rings.
The rutty road to Braemar all weather-worn and brown,
Goes tumbling on its journey until it nears the town.
Then with glory of the wattle-bloom its arms are weighted down!
Oh, the long, long road to anywhere seems haply without end,
But who shall call it weary with the love of some good friend
To greet him like the wattle as he turns the final bend!