Part 8

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I have no feud with Labor, But at the Gates of June I fling away my dusty pack And join in Youth’s glad tune. And just forgetting for a while That I am worn and gray, Go sailing off with Peter Pan Along the Tree-top Way!

_May Riley Smith_

_Early Morning at Bargis_

Clear air and grassy lea, Stream-song and cattle-bell-- Dear man, what fools are we In prison-walls to dwell!

To live our days apart From green things and wide skies, And let the wistful heart Be cut and crushed with lies!

Bright peaks!--And suddenly Light floods the placid dell, The grass-tops brush my knee: A good crop it will be, So all is well! O man, what fools are we In prison-walls to dwell!

_Hermann Hagedorn_

_Denial_

It is not down this road I walk, Or through these brown-leaved trees; For in my heart I loiter where The clover calls the bees;

Where trees are green and streams are warm, And drowsy life is sweet-- It is not down this lane I go With tired, reluctant feet.

_Lancaster Pollard_

_“A la Belle Étoile”_

Oh, who will lodge at my Inn tonight, And live both fair and fine, With a blossoming blackberry vine for a gate, And a friendly star for a sign?

Good sir, my Inn is a gentle Inn, The wine is sweet and old; ’Tis Adam’s, sir, with a fine bouquet, And the color of liquid gold.

The carriages roll on the rocky road To a musty house afar; But the gentlefolk stop by the blackberry gate At the Inn of the Beautiful Star.

Sweet fern, sweet fern for your pillow, sir, And a quick-eared faun for your mate, And a firefly’s light for your candle bright-- Good sooth, we sleep in state.

The winds go murmuring by at dusk And call you up at dawn, To walk through the fairies’ handkerchiefs And startle a sleeping fawn.

When day is red on the river’s bed, And bright on quartz and spar, We’ll say our short St. Martin’s grace At the Inn of the Beautiful Star.

The blackberry vine is a maiden now, With her pale stars in the dew; Come back next month, good sir, there’ll be Sweet blackberries for you.

We’ll wish you luck from the blackberry gate. Although you wander far, ’Tis here that you’ll come home at last-- To our Inn of the Beautiful Star.

_Sara Hamilton Birchall_

_Journey_

Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind Blow over me,--I am so tired, so tired Of passing pleasant places! All my life, Following Care along the dusty road, Have I looked back at loveliness and sighed; Yet at my hand an unrelenting hand Tugged ever, and I passed. All my life long Over my shoulder have I looked at peace; And now I fain would lie in this long grass And close my eyes, Yet onward!

Cat-birds call Through the long afternoon, and creeks at dusk Are guttural. Whippoorwills wake and cry, Drawing the twilight close about their throats. Only my heart makes answer. Eager vines Go up the rocks and wait; flushed apple-trees Pause in their dance and break the ring for me; Dim, shady wood-roads, redolent of fern And bayberry, that through sweet bevies thread Of round-faced roses, pink and petulant, Look back and beckon ere they disappear. Only my heart, only my heart responds, Yet, ah, my path is sweet on either side All through the dragging day,--sharp underfoot, And hot, and like dead mist the dry dust hangs-- But far, oh, far as passionate eye can reach, And long, ah, long as rapturous eye can cling, The world is mine; blue hill, still silver lake, Broad field, bright flower, and the long white road. A gateless garden, and an open path; My feet to follow, and my heart to hold.

_Edna St. Vincent Millay_

_The Sojourner_

I will arise and go; the wind is fain of me, The laughing wind that stirs my climbing rose; The tiny clusters nod and talk together, But what their secret may be, no one knows.

I will arise and go; the wind is fain of me, The rose is heavy in the southern town, The wild geese travel northward in the mornings, The bold-eyed southern spring tears wide her gown.

I will arise and go; the wind is fain of me, The last snow melts beneath the gray stone walls, The green young sedges fringe the river-margin, And in my heart the Northland calls and calls.

I will arise and go; the wind is fain of me. Too long I wait in summer’s tasselled hall, Too long I dream amid the tulip blossoms, Too long I linger when I hear the call.

I will arise and go to seek the mountains, I will return my playfellows to greet; Once more the open hills and the sweet meadow, Once more the virgin Northland’s lips to meet.

_Sara Hamilton Birchall_

_Traveller’s Rest_

When you are tired of the long road and the open sky, I wish it may be my door that you’re passing by: I wish it may be my hearth where you will sit down And tell your tales of the land and sea and the strange far town.

Oh, come you in from eastward or come you in from the west, Here’s good cheer to greet you and welcome of the best: Oh, come you with your pockets full or come you home poor, Here’s a place by the fireside and an open door.

You’ll tell me where you were since, and the things you’ve seen Up and down the wide world where so long you’ve been,-- All the time that I’ve been here and you far away,-- And then awhile be silent, as good friends may.

And then awhile listen to the wind and rain, Moaning in the chimney-breast, beating at the pane,-- Dark and cold outside there, and the stormy skies, And you sitting down here with the firelight in your eyes.

_C. Fox-Smith_

_Far From the Madding Crowd_

It seems to me I’d like to go Where bells don’t ring nor whistles blow, Nor clocks don’t strike nor gongs don’t sound, But where there’s stillness all around.

Not real still stillness; just the trees’ Low whisperings or the croon of bees; The drowsy tinklings of the rill, Or twilight song of whippoorwill.

’Twould be a joy could I behold The dappled fields of green and gold, Or in the cool, sweet clover lie And watch the cloud-ships drifting by.

I’d like to find some quaint old boat, And fold its oars, and with it float Along the lazy, limpid stream Where water-lilies drowse and dream.

Sometimes it seems to me I must Just quit the city’s din and dust, For fields of green and skies of blue; And, say! How does it seem to you?

_Nixon Waterman_

_Streams_

I so love water-laughter, Its bubbling flecks and gleams, I pray in the hereafter There somewhere may be streams.

I’d have for my companion In some celestial nook, Beneath a spreading banyan, The music of a brook.

Its measures would entice me, Uncumbered by the clay, Its melody suffice me Till drooped the heavenly day.

Then its all-liquid laughter Would murmur through my dreams; I pray in the hereafter There somewhere may be streams.

_Clinton Scollard_

_The Call_

I must get out to the woods again, to the whispering tree and the birds awing, Away from the haunts of pale-faced men, to the spaces wide where strength is king; I must get out where the skies are blue and the air is clean and the rest is sweet, Out where there’s never a task to do or a goal to reach or a foe to meet.

I must get out on the trails once more that wind through shadowy haunts and cool, Away from the presence of wall and door, and see myself in a crystal pool; I must get out with the silent things, where neither laughter nor hate is heard, Where malice never the humblest stings and no one is hurt by a spoken word.

Oh, I’ve heard the call of the tall white pine, and heard the call of the running brook, I’m tired of the tasks which each day are mine, I’m weary of reading a printed book, I want to get out of the din and strife, the clank and clamor of turning wheel, And walk for a day where life is life, and the joys are true and the pictures real.

_Edgar A. Guest_

_The Road that Leads to Home_

My road is a by-road, with big trees reaching high, A tapestry of living green against a sapphire sky; An olden road, a golden road, is the road I love to roam A gleaming road, a dreaming road, the road that leads to home.

My road is a shy road, where whispering lovers stray And breathe the scent of the bramble-rose and fields of new-mown hay; A road to woo with a song or two, ere the day has yet begun, A smiling road, a beguiling road, that dips into the sun.

My road is a by-road, where townfolk never tread, With wild wind flowers in the grass, and green leaves overhead; Oh, dawn-mist road, oh, star-kissed road, across the white sea foam I hear you crying, hear you sighing, calling the wand’rer home.

_Ethel E. Mannin_

_Echoes from Vagabondia_

_The bed was made, the room was fit, by punctual eve the stars were lit. The air was still, the water ran, no need was there for maid or man, When we put up, my ass and I, at God’s green caravanserai._

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

_Wanderthirst_

Beyond the East the sunrise, beyond the West the sea, And East and West the wanderthirst that will not let me be; It works in me like madness, to bid me say good-bye; 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 a 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_

_The Vagabond_

To tread the path of glory needs a braver soul than I, A man who will not stop to watch the white clouds drifting by, A man who will not pause to throw a pebble in a stream Or stretch full length upon its bank, the captive of a dream.

A braver soul than I must tread the rugged way and long, A man who will not stop to catch the wild canary’s song, A man who’ll pass a thousand charms and never turn to see The beauty of the petaled dress upon an apple tree.

To tread the path of glory needs a stronger soul than mine, A man that isn’t tempted when the air is sharp as wine, A man that has no vision save the golden goal he seeks, And doesn’t hear the language which the voice of nature speaks.

But I am prey to woods and fields, to sunny hills and streams, And I’ve a soul which likes to drift and tease itself with dreams, And weak am I that should be strong--a sunbeam on a pond Has but to wink an eye at me, and I’m a vagabond.

_Edgar A. Guest_

_Gipsy Song_

Gipsy, gipsy, gipsy girl! April’s at the door, April’s whistling through the wood-- Must I call once more?

Gipsy, gipsy, gipsy girl! Keen across the night Hylas flutes among the pools And the road’s moon-white.

Gipsy, gipsy, gipsy girl! Must I whistle still, Waiting at your silent door On the ferny hill?

Moonlit road and breaking sea, Wet wind from the south! Gipsy, all your lover lacks Is your scarlet mouth!

_Sara Hamilton Birchall_

_The Road To Vagabondia_

He was sitting on a doorstep as I went strolling by; A lonely little beggar with a wistful, homesick eye-- And he wasn’t what you’d borrow And he wasn’t what you’d steal-- But I guessed his heart was breaking, So I whistled him to heel.

They had stoned him through the city streets and naught the city cared, But I was heading outward and the roads are sweeter shared, So I took him for a comrade and I whistled him away-- On the road to Vagabondia that lies across the day.

Yellow dog he was; but bless you--he was just the chap for me! For I’d rather have an inch of dog than miles of pedigree. So we stole away together on the road that has no end With a new-coined day to fling away and all the stars to spend!

Oh, to walk the road at morning, when the wind is blowing clean, And the yellow daisies fling their gold across a world of green-- For the wind it heals the heart-aches and the sun it dries the scars, On the road to Vagabondia that lies beneath the stars.

’Twas the wonder of the going cast a spell about our feet-- We walked because the world was young, because the way was sweet; And we slept in wild-rose meadows by the little wayside farms, ’Til the Dawn came up the highroad with the dead moon in her arms.

Oh, the Dawn it went before us through a shining lane of skies, And the Dream was at our heartstrings and the light was in our eyes, And we made no boast of glory and we made no boast of birth, On the road to Vagabondia that lies across the earth.

_Dana Burnet_

_Gipsy Feet_

Oh, gipsy hearts are many enough, but gipsy feet are few! Many’s the one that loves to dream night-long of stars and dew: Many’s the one that loves the scent of wood-smoke by the way, And turns a leaping longing heart to every dawn of day.

Gipsy hearts are many enough, but gipsy feet are few.-- Ah, how ill it is to bide unloosed the long year through! Up and down the loud gray streets, stared at, staring back, Through tarnished trails of the staggering sun and soot-fog ochre-black;--

Dressed in heavy and sober togs, eating of heavy fare, Hailed by only the screaming street, “Mind! step lively there!” Crook-backed over a dusty desk,--bothering to and fro There in the dull and airless house,--ah, to cut and go!--

Up the hill-roads into the day! Over the sea-ward fells, Watch the thistle-down dip, and hear the thin sheep’s huddling bells; Run like fire along the field, worship the heart of the wood, Kneel by the spring that splits the rock, and find the white rain good.

--Oh, gipsy hearts are many enough, but gipsy feet are few; And secret gods must we worship still, if we worship fire and dew. For we must bend at the dusty desk, and over the counter lean,-- Toil and moil in the sun-starved house, though leaves blow red or green.

God, great God of the wind’s caress, God of the sea’s salute, Why are we chained and muzzled and meshed more than our brother the brute? Shall there be never a day that all of the gipsy hearts may greet, Laughing out at the lure of the sun for the lift of the gipsy feet?

But oh, though that day is far to come, and the feet forget to go free, Pray God that the hearts may not forget the hurt and the ecstasy! Pray God that never the fret may fail when the Spring comes over the year, That never the thin gay autumn dawns may seem less wild and dear.

For shall it not be the height of Heaven, wonderful, swift, and sweet, If into the paths of perilous death may wander the gipsy feet? May wander free, with the risk of the road, the road that the glad Dead know, Out where the fires of God flame high, and the winds of God lean low!

_Fannie Stearns Davis_

_A Strip of Blue_

I do not own an inch of land, But all I see is mine,-- The orchard and the mowing-fields, The lawns and gardens fine. The winds my tax-collectors are, They bring me tithes divine,-- Wild scents and subtle essences, A tribute rare and free; And, more magnificent than all, My window keeps for me A glimpse of blue immensity,-- A little strip of sea.

Richer am I than he who owns Great fleets and argosies; I have a share in every ship Won by the inland breeze To loiter on yon airy road, Above the apple-trees. I freight them with my untold dreams; Each bears my own picked crew; And nobler cargoes wait for them Than ever India knew,-- My ships that sail into the East Across that outlet blue.

_Lucy Larcom_

_Black Ashes_

Sometime we shall remember them, the little camping places, A day long, an hour long, a halt beside the way, Shall see again before us the mountains’ kindly faces With the white roads pleading, leading through the hill-mists wreathing gray.

Lichened spur and creeping trail, sun-gold in the west, Purple moorland, misty lure-land spreading far beneath; Red-gold flamelight lifting, drifting, round the pine-dark crest To dim the little village lights asleep upon the heath.

Sometime we shall remember them, from out the days that bind us, A year long, a life long, that link and hold us fast, Will come a breath of twilight blent with woodsmoke to remind us Of the little camping places in the springtimes that are past.

White-spread dunes and opal sea, gray gulls slant the spray, Spiced sweetfern by sandy turn where the sun strikes gold, Scent of woodsmoke, vagrant, fragrant, ah, it haunts the air today From the little camping places in the Story That Is Told.

_Martha Haskell Clark_

_The Wander Lure_

The robin’s on the wing again; I hear the call o’ spring again, And fain am I to follow, lass; it calls me not in vain! Yea, I would join the chorus. Lo! the highway is before us,-- _But what if she, my first beloved, should call to me again?_

The wander lure is part o’ me, and love is in the heart o’ me, And I would tread the road with you that leads beyond the door. I hear the cry o’ laughter, and my feet would follow after,-- _But what if she, my first beloved, should call to me once more?_

Yea, I will follow you, my lass, around the world and through, my lass, To seek the peace o’ summer moons that waits beside the sea. We’ll leave the past behind us; come, the joy o’ life will find us,-- _But what if she, my first beloved, should call again to me?_

_Kendall Banning_

_Comrades of the Trail_

Until the day the world shall die We shall be comrades, you and I.

For we have seen the morning break In golden beauty on that lake That rests in intimate grace before Our cedar cabin’s unlatched door; And we have heard the rain at night And blessed our driftwood hearthfire light; Wakened by thunder, we have crept Closer and turned again and slept While the trees crashed, weakening, And blocked our trail up to the spring.

Dangers of cities never draw Two close as does the forest’s awe; Beauties of cities never bind Memory and heart and soul and mind As does the dawn in forest places, Or tree-rent moonlight on our faces.

Husband and wife! If that were all! Not vows alone have made us thrall, But none can evermore walk free Bound to each other as are we, By sky and water, fern and tree.

_Mary Carolyn Davies_

_The Vagrant_

I will leave the dust of the city street and the noise of the busy town For the windy moor and the high hill and the peat-stream flowing brown; I will keep my watch by the camp-fires where the white cliffs lean to the sea, And dawn shall wake me with golden hands and the rain shall walk with me.

I will seek the place where gypsies roam and strange, wild songs are sung; I will find once more the magic paths I knew when earth was young, And the stars will give me comradeship and the wind will be my friend, And I will send you the fairy gold that lies at the rainbow’s end.

Stretch not your hands nor bid me stay, I hear the white road’s call, The sun hath kissed the buds from sleep, and I am one with them all; But I will send you a golden cloak and a pair of silver shoon, And a dream that the fairies spin from stars on the other side of the moon.

_Pauline Slender_

_The Gipsy Wedding_

Once more the gipsy aster Her flaunting kerchief waves, Once more along the wood-ways His nuts the squirrel saves; Once more the vagrant passion Stirs heart of man and maid, Once more it is October, Once more the spell is laid.

And to Saint Bartel’s altar Two come where was but one, With goldenrod and beechleaf Beneath the amber sun; Two come, Saint Bartelmeo, With sunbrowned hand in hand, To pray your blessing, Father, Upon the golden band.

There in the tall cathedral Of tamarack and pine, The old saint gives the blessing, The sunbrowned fingers twine. And down the dusky wood-ways The gipsy lad and maid Go hand in hand together Forever unafraid.

_Sara Hamilton Birchall_

_The Vagabond At Home_

Oh, it’s spring once more in France, and it’s spring in gay Algiers, And it’s spring along the happy Appian Way; There are cherries in Japan, and the thrushes’ joy and tears Pipe for England, “There is nowhere such a day!”

How the call rings clear, commanding: “Hurry over, sail afar To the date-tree and the banyan’s dim domain; To the Yangtze and the Yalu, where the bell-topped temples are; And remember there are castles left in Spain!”

But I hear a whisper steady, blowing down my own home-stream Full of all the glad romance I used to know: “Leave the lands beyond to others; Our wee woodfolk are your brothers; And the earth is bursting treasure!” So I go.

When the wander urge is on me, there are never bonds that hold; When the summons comes, it never comes in vain; But the foreign trails are either far too new or far too old-- Give me April in my native woods again!

_Ruth Wright Kauffman_

_The Gipsy Trail_

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

Ever the wide world over, lass, 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 lass 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 lass 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 God 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 Mahim 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.