O, the bliss to stroll in the woods on a sunny morn:

When each creature in his own greeteth thee cheerily,

And the soft breeze moveth that green canopy whose shade

Giveth thee repose from the trials that the sun hath giv’n.

Who would know, on such a pleasant occasion, that thou,

O, thou art lost and canst not find thy way through woods?

These are only trees that thou seest before thee. But where,

Where are the promised brambles, the expected thistles?

Finding that path hath become thy solitary goal.

Thou hast found many trails, promising and bright; however,

Thou past them by, looking for thy much favored route,

But thou knowest not where to find it nor if it be.

What, now thou stoppest, but wherefore? What doth make thee still?

Thou lookest back to that course thou hast crossed and knowest

That thou hadst dropped something while crossing, but thou canst not

Remember what thou hadst lost; but thou knowest its worth.

But lo, thou seest those burrs and spikèd vines expected!

Whence have they come that they be behind yet not before?

When last seen, that wood was kind and merry, O, but now

It beareth an evil smirk and mocketh a retrace.

Thus, now thou thinkest of what lay ahead. Is’t better

To go back, face the pricks and the pain and find one’s heart,

Or whatever it be; or to go forward until

There is only terror before and toil behind?