THE
CALL OF THE OPEN
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THE care
And the wear
Of the world may grind,
And the toil
And the moil
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5 |
Of
life may dree:
But the indolent mind
Of the vagabond wind
And its far-off shine
Of
the world for me!
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10 |
They may chain
Me in vain
To an irksome book,
In the dingy din
Of
a toil-worn room:
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15 |
But
the sunbeam genie
Of meadow and brook,
Sings in my heart
Through
the glimmer and gloom.
My body is here,
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20 |
But my soul is there;
Ye may not keep me
On
such a day:
When over
The clover,
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25 |
That
mad wind-rover
Is chasing the shadow
And
shine away.
They
are my brothers
Who call
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30 |
And call;
And lilt
In the song
Of the wind
Till
I go;
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35 |
With
the gleam
And dream
Of the sunfleeced wall,
Out to the sleeps
Of the deeps
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40 |
That
flow.
What care
To fare
‘Mid the haunts of men;
Wild are the thoughts
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45 |
Of
the wind-blown day;
What recks life
Of the street-strife,
When,
Fleet are the fancies
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50 |
| Of
far away.
Out in the woodlands,
Leaping, ashine,
The brooks are brimming,
Their
glad glens through:
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55 |
And
dim in a mist,
To the far skyline,
The
hills,
To the verge
Of the world,
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60 |
| Are
blue.
Fevered the voice
Of the street that calls:
With its care
And its wear,
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65 |
And
its old-world fret:
But out
In the house
Of the wind’s
Wide walls,
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70 |
No tears
In the eyes
Of the years
Are
wet.
But the tune-
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75 |
Less
swoon
Of the day,
And a bird
That pipes
From a sunlit,
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80 |
Dream-swayed
Tree:—
While the breast,
Dim-stirred,
Of a stream
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85 |
Is
heard,
Far,
From the jar
Of the world
Set
free.
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90 |
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