On miles on miles--he took his stick and walked on miles. Enchanted dazed and shivering screaming scared into the wind-- his journey continues through the fire and the flood and the sandstorm. On miles on miles you took your stick and kept on walking. When you went--the weeping faces soaked the wood of the altar and pews while I stood dreaming no longer one but a violence of shards. On miles on miles I took his stick and kept on walking. The end is in the journey in the miles on miles of snowdrifts where one lone chimstack stands a'smoke with a strange meal on the table. The pains and the triumphs each face that we meet the end is in the cloudbank that cloaks the drifter and is his longing.