The Footpath Way 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– 1631 WANDERLUST BEYOND the East the sunrise, beyond the West the sea, 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 winding road lies white and bare, Beyond, the fields are full in view, The great-eyed kine browse thankfully; This stile, where country lovers tryst, Where many a man and maid have kissed, Leave men and lumbering wains behind, Those dryads of the wood, that some The fountains of the meadows play, When summer-snows have sweetly dressed The pasture like a wedding-guest, By fields of beans that shall eclipse With woodruff and the new hay's breath, Skirting the rich man's lawn and hall, By orchards yet in rosy veils, By hidden nests of nightingales, Through lonesome valleys where all day The footpath sets her tender lure. 1 This is the country for the poor; A Maine Trail 1633 A MAINE TRAIL COME follow, heart upon your sleeve, Past tasseled corn and fresh-mown hay, Strike in by the gnarled way through the swamp Where late the laurel shone, An intimate close where you meet yourself And come unto your own, By bouldered brook to the hidden spring And swift birds break the silence as Stout-hearted thrust through gold-green copse To weave a garment of warm delight, Of sunspun ecstasy; 'Twill shield you all winter from frosty eyes, 'Twill shield your heart from cold; Such greens!-how the Lord Himself loves green! Then on till flaming fireweed Is quenched in forest deep; Tread soft! The sumptuous paven moss Oh come, the welcoming trees lead on, Shy violets smile, proud branches bow, The silence is a courtesy, The well-bred calm of kings; Gertrude Huntington McGiffert [18 AFOOT COMES the lure of green things growing, Comes the call of waters flowing— And the wayfarer desire Moves and wakes and would be going. Hark the migrant hosts of June Long the quest and far the ending In his ears the phantom chime Of incommunicable rhyme, He shall chase the fleeting camp-fires Of the Bedouins of Time. Farer by uncharted ways, Dumb as death to plaint or praise, Unreturning he shall journey, Fellow to the nights and days; Till upon the outer bar Stilled the moaning currents are, Till the flame achieves the zenith, Till the moth attains the star, Till through laughter and through tears Fair the final peace appears, And about the watered pastures Sink to sleep the nomad years! Charles G. D. Roberts [1860 From Romany to Rome FROM ROMANY TO ROME UPON the road to Romany It's stay, friend, stay! There's lots o' love and lots o' time To linger on the way; Poppies for the twilight, Roses for the noon, It's happy goes as lucky goes To Romany in June. But on the road to Rome-oh, It's march, man, march! The dust is on the chariot wheels, The sere is on the larch, Helmets and javelins And bridles flecked with foam The flowers are dead, the world's ahead But on the road to Rome-ah, Ruddying the gloam The fields are gray and worn away Upon the road to Romany It's sing, boys, sing! Though rag and pack be on our back We'll whistle to the King. Wine is in the sunshine, Madness in the moon, And de'il may care the road we fare To Romany in June. Along the road to Rome, alas! The glorious dust is whirled, Strong hearts are fierce to see The City of the World; 1635 |