The Home Book of Verse Volume Iii Part 78

THE FOOTPATH WAY

The winding road lies white and bare, Heavy in dust that takes the glare; The thirsty hedgerows and parched gra.s.s 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.

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

Katherine Tynan Hinkson [1861-1931]

A MAINE TRAIL

Come follow, heart upon your sleeve, The trail, a-teasing by, Past ta.s.seled 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 s.h.i.+eld you all winter from frosty eyes, 'Twill s.h.i.+eld 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 G.o.d-- 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 gra.s.ses 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

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 suns.h.i.+ne, 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; Yet footfall or bugle-call Or thunder as ye will, Upon the road to Romany The birds are calling still!

Wallace Irwin [1875-

THE TOIL OF THE TRAIL

What have I gained by the toil of the trail?

I know and know well.

I have found once again the lore I had lost In the loud city's h.e.l.l.