Th eWa n d e r e rby Francesca di Maria Spaulding.Illustration by Henry Raleigh.HE comes from a country where setting sunProclaims that the day and its work are done;Where moon and stars shed the only lightOn trails that are hushed and dim by night.He wanders alone in the crowded townWhere skies are forgotten when night comes down,Where torches alight in traffic’s nameMay broider the streets with threads of flame,May blazon the walls in strange designs,May rive the darkness with flashing signs,But quench the beam from each torch in the skyAs well as the soul of each passer-by.Aweary at heart of the careless throngHe drifted and reveled with all too long;He yearns for the stillness of field and hill,For the melodic sound of a wild bird’s trill,For the infinite heights of starry skies,When the moon makes the world seem paradise.But he ne’er returns, and up and downHe wanders—alone—in the crowded town.“He yearns for the stillness of field and hill,For the melodic sound of a wild bird’s trill.”
by Francesca di Maria Spaulding.
Illustration by Henry Raleigh.
HE comes from a country where setting sunProclaims that the day and its work are done;Where moon and stars shed the only lightOn trails that are hushed and dim by night.He wanders alone in the crowded townWhere skies are forgotten when night comes down,Where torches alight in traffic’s nameMay broider the streets with threads of flame,May blazon the walls in strange designs,May rive the darkness with flashing signs,But quench the beam from each torch in the skyAs well as the soul of each passer-by.Aweary at heart of the careless throngHe drifted and reveled with all too long;He yearns for the stillness of field and hill,For the melodic sound of a wild bird’s trill,For the infinite heights of starry skies,When the moon makes the world seem paradise.But he ne’er returns, and up and downHe wanders—alone—in the crowded town.
HE comes from a country where setting sunProclaims that the day and its work are done;Where moon and stars shed the only lightOn trails that are hushed and dim by night.
H
E comes from a country where setting sun
Proclaims that the day and its work are done;
Where moon and stars shed the only light
On trails that are hushed and dim by night.
He wanders alone in the crowded townWhere skies are forgotten when night comes down,Where torches alight in traffic’s nameMay broider the streets with threads of flame,May blazon the walls in strange designs,May rive the darkness with flashing signs,But quench the beam from each torch in the skyAs well as the soul of each passer-by.
He wanders alone in the crowded town
Where skies are forgotten when night comes down,
Where torches alight in traffic’s name
May broider the streets with threads of flame,
May blazon the walls in strange designs,
May rive the darkness with flashing signs,
But quench the beam from each torch in the sky
As well as the soul of each passer-by.
Aweary at heart of the careless throngHe drifted and reveled with all too long;He yearns for the stillness of field and hill,For the melodic sound of a wild bird’s trill,For the infinite heights of starry skies,When the moon makes the world seem paradise.
Aweary at heart of the careless throng
He drifted and reveled with all too long;
He yearns for the stillness of field and hill,
For the melodic sound of a wild bird’s trill,
For the infinite heights of starry skies,
When the moon makes the world seem paradise.
But he ne’er returns, and up and downHe wanders—alone—in the crowded town.
But he ne’er returns, and up and down
He wanders—alone—in the crowded town.
“He yearns for the stillness of field and hill,For the melodic sound of a wild bird’s trill.”
“He yearns for the stillness of field and hill,For the melodic sound of a wild bird’s trill.”
“He yearns for the stillness of field and hill,For the melodic sound of a wild bird’s trill.”
“He yearns for the stillness of field and hill,For the melodic sound of a wild bird’s trill.”
“He yearns for the stillness of field and hill,
For the melodic sound of a wild bird’s trill.”