seeking the chalk-white arrows

I find that life - even dreary, weepy, angsty, snow-in-April life - is made brighter, lighter, and far more manageable by Shel Silverstein. And since I spent much of the afternoon resisting the dangerous lure of Pablo Neruda, I think this will do nicely. Even without the illustrations.

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

~Shel Silverstein, Where The Sidewalk Ends, 1974