It is too late to use the map

Our parents used. Lay out your own

Roads westward, curt and confident;

Cross mountains and meridians,

And run to meet your own delight.

It is too late to follow paths

Hard-packed by feet a long time dead.

New areas of pain now lie

Between the traveller and truth,

Rivers have cut new channels out,

And younger trees are hung with fruit.

Under a strong light spread your map,

And plot the dear essential dream

In the fierce color of your blood.

Then say good-bye. Your star is up.

Trust your own heart to set you free

Along the curve of time, and go.