THE
VAGABONDS
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| "Such
as wake on the night and sleep on the day, and haunt
customable taverns and alehouses and routs about,
and no man wot from whence they came, nor whither
they go."— Old English Statute. |
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WE
are the vagabonds of time,
And rove the yellow autumn
days,
When all the roads are gray with rime
And all the valleys blue
with haze.
We
came unlooked for as the wind |
5 |
Trooping
across the April hills,
When the brown waking earth had dreams
Of summer in the Wander
Kills.
How far afield we joyed to fare,
With June in every blade
and tree!
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10 |
Now
with the sea-wind in our hair
We turn our faces to the
sea.
We go unheeded as the stream
That wanders by the hill-wood
side,
Till the great marshes take his hand
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15 |
| And
lead him to the roving tide.
The roving tide, the sleeping hills,
These are the borders
of that zone
Where they may fare as fancy wills
Whom wisdom smiles and
calls her own.
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It is a country of the sun,
Full of forgotten yesterdays,
When time takes Summer in his care,
And fills the distance of
her gaze.
It stretches from the open sea
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To
the blue mountains and beyond;
The world is Vagabondia
To him who is a vagabond.
In the beginning God made man
Out of the wandering dust,
men say;
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30 |
And
in the end his life shall be
A wandering wind and blown
away.
We are the vagabonds of time,
Willing to let the world
go by,
With joy supreme, with heart sublime,
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35 |
| And
valor in the kindling eye.
We have forgotten where we slept,
And guess not where we
sleep to-night,
Whether among the lonely hills
In the pale streamers’
ghostly light
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40 |
We shall lie down and hear the frost
Walk in the dead leaves
restlessly,
Or somewhere on the iron coast
Learn the oblivion of the
sea.
It matters not. And yet I dream
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Of
dreams fulfilled and rest somewhere
Before this restless heart is stilled
And all its fancies blown
to air.
Had I my will!…The sun burns down
And something plucks my
garment’s hem;
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50 |
The
robins in their faded brown
Would lure me to the south
with them.
‘Tis time for vagabonds to make
The nearest inn. Far on
I hear
The voices of the Northern hills
|
55 |
| Gather
the vagrants of the year.
Brave heart, my soul! Let longings be!
We have another day to
wend.
For dark or waylay what care we
Who have the lords of
time to friend?
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60 |
And if we tarry or make haste,
The wayside sleep can hold
no fear.
Shall fate unpoise, or whim perturb,
The calm-begirt in dawn
austere?
There is a tavern, I have heard,
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Not
far, and frugal, kept by One
Who knows the children of the Word,
And welcomes each when day
is done.
Some say the house is lonely set
In Northern night, and
snowdrifts keep
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70 |
The
silent door; the hearth is cold,
And all my fellows gone
to sleep… .
Had I my will! I hear the sea
Thunder a welcome on the
shore;
I know where lies the hostelry
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75 |
| And
who should open me the door. |
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