A person leaves town to find a mountain peak, and along the way notices an old road that isn't quite what they expected. The poem is tiny, but it moves from a plain action to a surprising comparison. The first lines sound like a simple report: someone has gone out to discover a peak. Then the old road appears, "not as blue," which suggests it lacks the distant, dreamy color that faraway hills often have. Up close, things look more ordinary.
But the last lines turn that disappointment around. The road is "rare as gold in / the history of pleasure," so what seemed plain becomes precious. The speaker seems quietly delighted, and the line break after "in" lets the word "gold" arrive with a little glow.
The mood is open, light, and contemplative. It feels like a breath of fresh air, a small reminder that the journey itself, even on a worn-out road, can be the real treasure.