No, no; I did not bargain for so much

When I set out upon the famous way

My fathers praised so fondly—such and such

The road, the errand, the prize, the part to play.

For everything is different. Hour and place

Are huddled awry, at random teased and tossed,

Too much piled on too much, no track or trace,

And north and south and road and traveller lost.

Then suddenly again I watch the old

Worn saga write across my years and find,

Scene after scene, the tale my fathers told,

But I in the middle blind, as Homer blind,

Dark on the highway, groping in the light,

Threading my dazzling way within my night.