In the grand rush of youth,
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I too took the road less traveled,
actually more a trail than a road,
straight up the side of the mountain.
I rushed past the literary inn
and traded my coat for a golden pen.
Down on the valley road,
occasionally, when touched with boredom,
they point at me and say my way is shorter and more beautiful.
It is true that I have slept in the arms of the wild redwoods
and often have joined the fierce midnight chorus of coyotes.
But I have also stumbled and clung to sharp crevices with bloody hands;
My feet are bruised and I cast sometimes tearful glances at the sunny way below.
But on afternoons like this,
my soul swells with alacrity
and the song of "further"
can be heard in the valley below.