The Trail
E. A. H.
1912

The little brown trail ran winding 'round
The lake's blue glimmer, and up the mound,
And out of the gate in merry glee,
'Way over the prairie it beckoned to me —
Tile little, brown, winding trail.

The trodden trail was hard to find
In the dusk and snow, and far behind
A twinkling light seemed calling me back;
But I stared through the gloom at the deepening track-
The treacherous, drifting trail.

The little-worn trail is winding still
To the low, bare cabin just over the hill,
And oh! but my heart is lonely tonight,
For there shines through the gloom no beckoning light
Over the old, old trail.