There was no precise point at which to say 
'I am on the wrong road.' So well he knew 
Where he wanted to go, he had walked in a dream 
Never dreaming he could lose his way. 
Besides, for such travellers it's all but true 
That up to a point any road will do 
As well as another - so why not walk 
Straight on? The trouble is, after this point 
There's no turning back, not even a fork; 
And you never can see that point until 
After you have passed it. And when you know 
For certain you are lost, there's nothing to do 
But go on walking your road, although 
You walk in a nightmare now, not a dream. 

But are there no danger-signs? Couldn't he see 
Something strange about the landscape to show 
That he was near where he should not be? 
Rather the opposite - perhaps the view 
Gave him a too familiar look And made him feel
at home where he had no right  Of way.
But when you have gone so far, 
A landscape says less than it used to do 

You can argue it thus or thus: either the road 
Changed gradually under his feet and became 
A wrong road, or else it was he who changed 
And put the road wrong. We'd hesitate to blame 
The traveller for a highway's going askew: 
Yet possibly he and it become one 
At a certain stage, like means and ends. 
For this lost traveller, all depends 
On how real the road is to him - not as a mode 
Of advancement or exercise - rather, as grain 
To timber, intrinsic-real.  
                                             He can but pursue 
His course and believe that, granting the road 
Was right at the start, it will see him through 
Their errors and turn into the right road again.