An Old Wooden Bridge

A quiet path I traveled by                                                                                                      

When soon a bridge the path became,

And over waters rushing by,

I wondered at its wooden frame.

For old and tired it looked to be,

Its rotting wood in weathered gray;

But if the far side I was to see ‑

Well then there was no other way.

So I considered my choices,

Having for sure come from somewhere,

While from the stream came no voices;

And what if beyond lead nowhere?

Although to go back I couldn't,

And in my heart of hearts I knew;

While pining I know I shouldn't ‑

But standing there what could I do?

And of such fear it's not denied,

As I held that rickety wood;

But here I am on the far side,

And now what's overcome is understood.