Classic Poem

Northward I go. To the left is the melancholy west where the gold of day is buried.
Of its treasures I have inherited only the gnawing memories — little fires always glowing ...
Northward I go; perhaps I may find a hut with a little flickering fire.
Then I'll rest my pack and staff and spend the night in the arms of a daughter of Eve.
And over the roof of the hut there will flow a silver rivulet and the encircling trees will rustle ...