The Home Book of Verse Volume Iii Part 77

Let the blow fall soon or late, Let what will be o'er me; Give the face of earth around And the road before me.

Wealth I seek not, hope nor love, Nor a friend to know me; All I seek, the heaven above And the road below me.

Or let autumn fall on me Where afield I linger, Silencing the bird on tree, Biting the blue finger.

White as meal the frosty field-- Warm the fireside haven-- Not to autumn will I yield, Not to winter even!

Let the blow fall soon or late, Let what will be o'er me; Give the face of earth around, And the road before me.

Wealth I ask not, hope nor love, Nor a friend to know me; All I ask, the heaven above And the road below me.

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

IN THE HIGHLANDS

In the highlands, in the country places, Where the old plain men have rosy faces, And the young fair maidens Quiet eyes; Where essential silence cheers and blesses And for ever in the hill-recesses Her more lovely music Broods and dies.--

O to mount again where erst I haunted; Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted, And the low green meadows Bright with sward; And when even dies, the million-tinted, And the night has come, and planets glinted, Lo, the valley hollow Lamp-bestarred!

O to dream, O to awake and wander There, and with delight to take and render, Through the trance of silence, Quiet breath!

Lo! for there, among the flowers and gra.s.ses, Only the mightier movement sounds and pa.s.ses; Only winds and rivers, Life and Death.

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

THE SONG MY PADDLE SINGS

West wind, blow from your prairie nest, Blow from the mountains, blow from the west.

The sail is idle, the sailor too; O wind of the west, we wait for you!

Blow, blow!

I have wooed you so, But never a favor you bestow.

You rock your cradle the hills between, But scorn to notice my white lateen.

I stow the sail and unship the mast: I wooed you long, but my wooing's past; My paddle will lull you into rest: O drowsy wind of the drowsy west, Sleep, sleep!

By your mountains steep, Or down where the prairie gra.s.ses sweep, Now fold in slumber your laggard wings, For soft is the song my paddle sings.

Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe!

The reckless waves you must plunge into.

Reel, reel, On your trembling keel, But never a fear my craft will feel.

We've raced the rapids; we're far ahead: The river slips through its silent bed.

Sway, sway, As the bubbles spray And fall in tinkling tunes away.

And up on the hills against the sky, A fir tree rocking its lullaby Swings, swings, Its emerald wings, Swelling the song that my paddle sings.

E. Pauline Johnson [1862-1913]

THE GIPSY TRAIL

The white moth to the closing vine, The bee to the opened clover, And the gipsy blood to the gipsy blood Ever the wide world over.

Ever the wide world over, la.s.s, Ever the trail held true, Over the world and under the world, And back at the last to you.

Out of the dark of the gorgio camp, Out of the grime and the gray (Morning waits at the end of the world), Gipsy, come away!

The wild boar to the sun-dried swamp, The red crane to her reed, And the Romany la.s.s to the Romany lad By the tie of a roving breed.

Morning waits at the end of the world Where winds unhaltered play, Nipping the flanks of their plunging ranks, Till the white sea-horses neigh.

The pied snake to the rifted rock, The buck to the stony plain, And the Romany la.s.s to the Romany lad, And both to the road again.

Both to the road again, again!

Out on a clean sea-track-- Follow the cross of the gipsy trail Over the world and back!

Follow the Romany patteran North where the blue bergs sail, And the bows are gray with the frozen spray, And the masts are shod with mail.

Follow the Romany patteran Sheer to the Austral Light, Where the besom of G.o.d is the wild south wind, Sweeping the sea-floors white.

Follow the Romany patteran West to the sinking sun, Till the junk-sails lift through the houseless drift, And the east and the west are one.

Follow the Romany patteran East where the silence broods By a purple wave on an opal beach In the hush of the Mahirn woods.

The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky, The deer to the wholesome wold, And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid, As it was in the days of old.

The heart of a man to the heart of a maid-- Light of my tents, be fleet!

Morning waits at the end of the world, And the world is all at our feet!

Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936]

WANDERl.u.s.t

Beyond the East the sunrise, beyond the West the sea, And East and West the wanderl.u.s.t that will not let me be; It works in me like madness, dear, to bid me say good-by!

For the seas call and the stars call, and oh, the call of the sky!

I know not where the white road runs, nor what the blue hills are, But man can have the sun for friend, and for his guide a star; And there's no end of voyaging when once the voice is heard, For the river calls and the road calls, and oh, the call of a bird!

Yonder the long horizon lies, and there by night and day The old ships draw to home again, the young ships sail away; And come I may, but go I must, and if men ask you why, You may put the blame on the stars and the sun and the white road and the sky!

Gerald Gould [1885-1936]