Classic Poem

Why , he never can tell;
But, without a doubt,
He knows very well
He must trample out
Through forest and fell
The world about
A way for himself,
A way for himself.

By sun and star,
Forlorn and lank,
O'er cliff and scar,
O'er bog and bank,
He hears afar
The expresses clank,
" You'll never get there,
You'll never get there!"

His bones and bread
Poor Turlygod
From his wallet spread
On the grass-green sod,
And stared and said
With a mow and a nod,
" Whither away, sir,
Whither away?"

" I'm going alone,
Though Hell forfend,
By a way of my own
To the bitter end."
He gnawed a bone
And snarled, " My friend,
You'll soon get there,
You'll soon get there."

But whether or no,
The world is round;
And he still must go
Through depths profound,
O'er heights of snow,
On virgin ground
To find a grave,
To find a grave.

For he knows very well
He must trample out
Through Heaven and Hell,
With never a doubt,
A way of his own
The world about.