The Wayfarer
Hewoke with the dawningMet eyes with the sun,And drank the wild raptureOf living begun.But he went with the momentTo follow the clue,Ere the first red of dawningHad drunk the blue dew.Follow him, follow him,Where the world will,Under the sunlightBy meadow and hill.Down the blue distance,Round the world’s rim,Where the hosts of the futureAre horning for him.Follow him, call to him,Pray to him, Sweet,Tell him the morningIs fresh for his feet;Sing him the rapture,The glamour, the gleamOf pearly dew-azureThat curtains the stream;Sing the glad thrushnoteThat never knew pain,But sing him and call himAnd pray him in vain.For ere the red dewdropIn sunlight was pearled,He heard that mad oceanThat whelms the world.Yea, heard that voice callingPast sunlight and dew,That rarest, alluringest,Ever heart knew.That siren of sunrise,That weaver of songs,Till the heart of man hearkensAnd gladdens and longs,Till o’er the blue distance,As opens the rose,The yearning impulsionOf all his life goes;And many a dragonChimera so grim,Down the dream of the morningIs vanquished by him.Yea, sing to him, call him throughHeartache in vain.But the gladdest day wakenedTo glory, must wane;And the noonday he longed forTo fierce light will burn,And the battles he wagesGrow bitter and stern;And the surge of life sinkTo the moan of a bar;And the hopes of the morningGrow hollow and far;And the road that he followsLess luring and true,Till he longs for a whiffOf the morning he knew.For he hears thy far singing,That lures not in vain,Till he comes to thy beautyOf dawning again.But the roads of returningAre never the sameAs the sweet dewy meadowsOf morning we came.But the song of alluringIs ever as true,To lead the heart backTo the beauty it knew;And vain the mad magicWhere life’s glories burn,For the heart of the yearnerWho longs to return:For he hears that voice calling,Voiced never in vain,To world-heart awearyFor all dreamings fain;And he hears the low grasses,The green tents of sod,From roof-trees of slumber,As voices of God;And the spinning and turning,Of madness amainFade out from his dreamingAs night from the pane,When the rosy-red splendorIn dewdreams impearled,From ashes of slumber,Lifts over the world.Yea, back from those echoesOf bugles that blew,Heart-weary, life-broken,He wanders to you;Yea, back to his truest,Those far broken gleamsOf that rosy-red, morning-litHouse of his dreams.Where all hours were splendid,And all hearts held true,In those glory-lit visionsOf beauty and you.Yea, call to him, cry to him,Mother of all;You lit his youth’s torches,You saw their flames fall.You loved him, upheld him,This child of thy breast,And now give him surceaseIn dreamings and rest.Thy note was the one noteHe heard in the fray,That bore him far outIn the heat of the day;Thy call is the one callThat beckons him home,When day-fires darkenBy forest and foam.When o’er all the heartache,The visions untrue,Love draws her dim curtainsOf duskfire and dew.While the bells ring for slumberAs out of the deep,Come pleading those velvet-wingedSpirits of sleep.And there at thy doorwaysOf slumber he stands,Like him of old Horeb,And sees his heart’s lands;And under the white aweOf planets that swim,Knows dawning and evenAs one world to him.
Hewoke with the dawningMet eyes with the sun,And drank the wild raptureOf living begun.But he went with the momentTo follow the clue,Ere the first red of dawningHad drunk the blue dew.Follow him, follow him,Where the world will,Under the sunlightBy meadow and hill.Down the blue distance,Round the world’s rim,Where the hosts of the futureAre horning for him.Follow him, call to him,Pray to him, Sweet,Tell him the morningIs fresh for his feet;Sing him the rapture,The glamour, the gleamOf pearly dew-azureThat curtains the stream;Sing the glad thrushnoteThat never knew pain,But sing him and call himAnd pray him in vain.For ere the red dewdropIn sunlight was pearled,He heard that mad oceanThat whelms the world.Yea, heard that voice callingPast sunlight and dew,That rarest, alluringest,Ever heart knew.That siren of sunrise,That weaver of songs,Till the heart of man hearkensAnd gladdens and longs,Till o’er the blue distance,As opens the rose,The yearning impulsionOf all his life goes;And many a dragonChimera so grim,Down the dream of the morningIs vanquished by him.Yea, sing to him, call him throughHeartache in vain.But the gladdest day wakenedTo glory, must wane;And the noonday he longed forTo fierce light will burn,And the battles he wagesGrow bitter and stern;And the surge of life sinkTo the moan of a bar;And the hopes of the morningGrow hollow and far;And the road that he followsLess luring and true,Till he longs for a whiffOf the morning he knew.For he hears thy far singing,That lures not in vain,Till he comes to thy beautyOf dawning again.But the roads of returningAre never the sameAs the sweet dewy meadowsOf morning we came.But the song of alluringIs ever as true,To lead the heart backTo the beauty it knew;And vain the mad magicWhere life’s glories burn,For the heart of the yearnerWho longs to return:For he hears that voice calling,Voiced never in vain,To world-heart awearyFor all dreamings fain;And he hears the low grasses,The green tents of sod,From roof-trees of slumber,As voices of God;And the spinning and turning,Of madness amainFade out from his dreamingAs night from the pane,When the rosy-red splendorIn dewdreams impearled,From ashes of slumber,Lifts over the world.Yea, back from those echoesOf bugles that blew,Heart-weary, life-broken,He wanders to you;Yea, back to his truest,Those far broken gleamsOf that rosy-red, morning-litHouse of his dreams.Where all hours were splendid,And all hearts held true,In those glory-lit visionsOf beauty and you.Yea, call to him, cry to him,Mother of all;You lit his youth’s torches,You saw their flames fall.You loved him, upheld him,This child of thy breast,And now give him surceaseIn dreamings and rest.Thy note was the one noteHe heard in the fray,That bore him far outIn the heat of the day;Thy call is the one callThat beckons him home,When day-fires darkenBy forest and foam.When o’er all the heartache,The visions untrue,Love draws her dim curtainsOf duskfire and dew.While the bells ring for slumberAs out of the deep,Come pleading those velvet-wingedSpirits of sleep.And there at thy doorwaysOf slumber he stands,Like him of old Horeb,And sees his heart’s lands;And under the white aweOf planets that swim,Knows dawning and evenAs one world to him.
Hewoke with the dawningMet eyes with the sun,And drank the wild raptureOf living begun.
But he went with the momentTo follow the clue,Ere the first red of dawningHad drunk the blue dew.
Follow him, follow him,Where the world will,Under the sunlightBy meadow and hill.
Down the blue distance,Round the world’s rim,Where the hosts of the futureAre horning for him.
Follow him, call to him,Pray to him, Sweet,Tell him the morningIs fresh for his feet;
Sing him the rapture,The glamour, the gleamOf pearly dew-azureThat curtains the stream;
Sing the glad thrushnoteThat never knew pain,But sing him and call himAnd pray him in vain.
For ere the red dewdropIn sunlight was pearled,He heard that mad oceanThat whelms the world.
Yea, heard that voice callingPast sunlight and dew,That rarest, alluringest,Ever heart knew.
That siren of sunrise,That weaver of songs,Till the heart of man hearkensAnd gladdens and longs,
Till o’er the blue distance,As opens the rose,The yearning impulsionOf all his life goes;
And many a dragonChimera so grim,Down the dream of the morningIs vanquished by him.
Yea, sing to him, call him throughHeartache in vain.But the gladdest day wakenedTo glory, must wane;
And the noonday he longed forTo fierce light will burn,And the battles he wagesGrow bitter and stern;
And the surge of life sinkTo the moan of a bar;And the hopes of the morningGrow hollow and far;
And the road that he followsLess luring and true,Till he longs for a whiffOf the morning he knew.
For he hears thy far singing,That lures not in vain,Till he comes to thy beautyOf dawning again.
But the roads of returningAre never the sameAs the sweet dewy meadowsOf morning we came.
But the song of alluringIs ever as true,To lead the heart backTo the beauty it knew;
And vain the mad magicWhere life’s glories burn,For the heart of the yearnerWho longs to return:
For he hears that voice calling,Voiced never in vain,To world-heart awearyFor all dreamings fain;
And he hears the low grasses,The green tents of sod,From roof-trees of slumber,As voices of God;
And the spinning and turning,Of madness amainFade out from his dreamingAs night from the pane,
When the rosy-red splendorIn dewdreams impearled,From ashes of slumber,Lifts over the world.
Yea, back from those echoesOf bugles that blew,Heart-weary, life-broken,He wanders to you;
Yea, back to his truest,Those far broken gleamsOf that rosy-red, morning-litHouse of his dreams.
Where all hours were splendid,And all hearts held true,In those glory-lit visionsOf beauty and you.
Yea, call to him, cry to him,Mother of all;You lit his youth’s torches,You saw their flames fall.
You loved him, upheld him,This child of thy breast,And now give him surceaseIn dreamings and rest.
Thy note was the one noteHe heard in the fray,That bore him far outIn the heat of the day;
Thy call is the one callThat beckons him home,When day-fires darkenBy forest and foam.
When o’er all the heartache,The visions untrue,Love draws her dim curtainsOf duskfire and dew.
While the bells ring for slumberAs out of the deep,Come pleading those velvet-wingedSpirits of sleep.
And there at thy doorwaysOf slumber he stands,Like him of old Horeb,And sees his heart’s lands;
And under the white aweOf planets that swim,Knows dawning and evenAs one world to him.