The Path

A path goes wrinkling up the hill;
A little path, with many a falter,
As if a faint or fickle will
Had let the purpose alter.
The fault we lay to him alone
Who first the upward journey made;
Whom here a bush and there a stone
From his intent betrayed.
How many will their footsteps bring
Where waits for them a trodden hollow,
For men, like sheep unquestioning,
Are ever fain to follow.
If you are first, put back the stone,
Subdue the bush your way impeding.
Diverge not, though in toil you groan,—
Remember—you are leading.