Classic Poem

Fumbling out of the old town
I hit the old road;
(tobacco, book and tacketty shoon
the outfit and the load).

By hooks and turns the craziest
it reared and pitched and wound
a general line on one great crest
and far outseeing ground.

I saw, the road's erratic guest,
landscapes swing and bound;
the more I pressed my unknown quest
deeper repose I found.

Not as an angel understands,
the thrones and cherubim,
" I see the work of blessed hands
by a light shrouded dim".

I seemed to wield a tenuous wand,
and with it write in space,
with trembling heart and steady hand,
a long-remembered phrase;

shortening it, in fluent air
I had the power to trace
the unforgettable; and there
the outline of a face