THE FAR-CALLED
The French peasants have a belief that if a green bough be found upon the cradle of a new-born child the fairies have called that child to wander far in quest of other-worldly things all its mortal life.
When on the bed of birth I layOut of the dark one came,And laid the green bough on my headAnd kissed my lips with flame;And whispered in my ear the callI may no more deny;Nor ever drown in lesser soundUntil the hour I die.And though my feet go down the streetThey feel not wood and stone;But tread the floor of forests far,And uplands wide and lone:And eyes like clouds blown through with rainTurn pleading-like to me—Their sorrow I may stay to ease,But not their gladness see.I know the roads my kindred takeTo gain and gear and home,I turn and bid them all Godspeed—And yet I may not come.I know the good of gain and gear,And hearth alight with love—Bide ye that may—I cannot stay,That seeking still must rove.And little camp-fires in the darkSend out their light to me;And little sweet, low voices call:“O traveller, who are ye,That goes so fast, that goes so farAlong the hidden night,As if ye sought some radiant star,Nor ever camp-fire’s light?”But for my soul I may not turn,My feet are strong and swift;I go to find beyond the windWhere unknown mountains lift,The tree where-from the green bough came,The voice that calls to me;Visions more bright than star or light,That lead and beckon me.