Classic Poem

Was that the landmark? What,—the foolish well
 Whose wave, low down, I did not stoop to drink
 But sat and flung the pebbles from its brink
In sport to send its imaged skies pell-mell,
(And mine own image, had I noted well!)—
 Was that my point of turning?—I had thought
 The stations of my course should rise unsought,
As altar-stone or ensigned citadel.

But lo! the path is missed, I must go back,
 And thirst to drink when next I reach the spring
Which once I stained, which since may have grown black.
 Yet though no light be left nor bird now sing
 As here I turn, I'll thank God, hastening,
That the same goal is still on the same track.