As I have wandered high and low,

as far as to, as close as fro,

little room, saveth I for fears.

 

For in my musing, wandering, losing,

for the dangers of my choosing

paths on which I've struggled through the years.

 

And yet my gladness, yet abated,

instills my bones, and senses jaded,

with vigor unimpressed by jest and jeers.

 

This inspiration of my wonders,

that catalyst, for all my blunders,

whose power brings most lesser men to tears,

 

Is love, my child, love that nurtures,

a blessed love, of all the searchers,

wand'rers, scouts, and breakers of frontiers.

 

Tis a love of the smell of the sky above,

of the talk of trees, the grip of gloves,

of untold stories gracing open ears.

 

Tis a love of life, in all its madness

and a love of strife, in all its sadness,

A love not of who speaks, but of who hears.