You may buckle on your knapsack and take the road on foot.
You may bestride a good nag, and ride forth, with a pair of saddle-
bags, into the enchanted East. You may cross the Black Forest, and
see Germany wide-spread before you, like a map, dotted with old
cities, walled and spired, that dream all day on their own
reflections in the Rhine or Danube. You may pass the spinal cord of
Europe and go down from Alpine glaciers to where Italy extends her
marble moles and glasses her marble palaces in the midland sea. You
may sleep in flying trains or wayside taverns. You may be awakened
at dawn by the scream of the express or the small pipe of the robin
in the hedge. For you the rain should allay the dust of the beaten
road; the wind dry your clothes upon you as you walked. Autumn
should hang out russet pears and purple grapes along the lane; inn
after inn proffer you their cups of raw wine; river by river receive
your body in the sultry noon. Wherever you went warm valleys and
high trees and pleasant villages should compass you about; and light
fellowships should take you by the arm, and walk with you an hour
upon your way.
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