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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,
And East and West the wanderlust 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!

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THE winding road lies white and bare,
Heavy in dust that takes the glare;
The thirsty hedgerows and parched grass
Dream of a time when no road was.

Beyond, the fields are full in view,
Heavy in herbage and in dew;

The great-eyed kine browse thankfully;
Come, take the footpath way with me!

This stile, where country lovers tryst,

Where many a man and maid have kissed,
Invites us sweetly, and the wood
Beckons us to her solitude.

Leave men and lumbering wains behind,
And dusty roads, all blank and blind;
Come tread on velvet and on silk,
Damasked with daisies, white as milk.

Those dryads of the wood, that some
Call the wild hyacinths, now are come,
And hold their revels in a night
Of emerald flecked with candle-light.

The fountains of the meadows play,
This is the wild bee's holiday;

When summer-snows have sweetly dressed

The pasture like a wedding-guest,

By fields of beans that shall eclipse
The honey on the rose's lips,

With woodruff and the new hay's breath,
And wild thyme sweetest in her death,

Skirting the rich man's lawn and hall,
The footpath way is free to all;
For us his pinks and roses blow:
Fling him thanksgiving ere we go!

By orchards yet in rosy veils,

By hidden nests of nightingales,

Through lonesome valleys where all day
The rabbit people scurry and play,

The footpath sets her tender lure.

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This is the country for the poor;
The high-road seeks the crowded sea;
Come, take the footpath way with me!
Katherine Tynan (1861-

A Maine Trail

1633

A MAINE TRAIL

COME follow, heart upon your sleeve,
The trail, a-teasing by,

Past tasseled corn and fresh-mown hay,
Trim barns and farm-house shy,
Past hollyhocks and white well-sweep,
Through pastures bare and wild,
Oh come, let's fare to the heart-o'-the-wood
With the faith of a little child.

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
Where breath of ferns blows sweet

And swift birds break the silence as
Their shadows cross your feet.

Stout-hearted thrust through gold-green copse
To garner the woodland glee,

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!
Such sun!--how He loves the gold!

Then on till flaming fireweed

Is quenched in forest deep;

Tread soft! The sumptuous paven moss
Is spread for Dryads' sleep;
And list ten thousand thousand spruce
Lift up their voice to God-
We can a little understand,
Born of the self-same sod.

Oh come, the welcoming trees lead on,
Their guests are we to-day;

Shy violets smile, proud branches bow,
Gay mushrooms mark the way;

The silence is a courtesy,

The well-bred calm of kings;
Come haste! the hour sets its face
Unto great Happenings.

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
Marching nearer noon by noon!
Hark the gossip of the grasses
Bivouacked beneath the moon!

Long the quest and far the ending
When my wayfarer is wending—
When desire is once afoot,
Doom behind and dream attending!

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
Upon the road to Rome.

But on the road to Rome-ah,
It's fight, man, fight!
Footman and horseman
Treading left and right,
Camp-fires and watch-fires

Ruddying the gloam

The fields are gray and worn away
Along the road to Rome.

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

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