Make no mistake, for the road goes up,
The road goes up, aye, the road goes up;
Not the desperate plunge o'er the canyon's edge,
Nor the poppied sleep 'neath the briary hedge,
While the lingers slip on the poison cup.
No byways, feathery with grass and fern,
No sweeping river, no sheltered burn;
But the wide white, road, in the dust and glare,
With the pitiless sunlight everywhere,
No butterfly on a rose to sup,
But a wingless progress--slowly up.
Make no mistake, for your road goes up,
Your road goes up, aye; your road goes up;
For others the dream in the poppied field,
For others the green boughs' tender shield,
There is only toil in your loving cup.
You wonder sometimes, when eves are grey,
And the lids come down o'er the eyes of day,
Why the bowers of love are decked for some,
While your feet keep time to a distant drum
Past the warm inn door, where the merry sup
And bid you pause as you stumble up.
But make no mistake, for your road goes up,
Your road goes up, aye, your road goes up;
No slipping to rest o'er the grassy edge,
Nor hidden nest in the budding hedge,
With your happy cheek on a violet cup.
There are mountains rising above the vale;
There's a helpful staff for the feet that fail,
There's a great while star in the purple night
That is only seen from a mountain height.
There's a board where gods, at the last, may sup
At the end of the road that journeys up!
First published in The Australasian, 29 July 1916
