Reel, reel,

The Gipsy Trail

On your trembling keel,

But never a fear my craft will feel.

We've raced the rapids; we're far ahead:

The river slips through its silent bed.

Sway, sway,

As the bubbles spray

And fall in tinkling tunes away.

And up on the hills against the sky,

A fir tree rocking its lullaby

Swings, swings,

Its emerald wings,

Swelling the song that my paddie sings.

1677

E. Pauline Johnson [1862-1913]

THE GIPSY TRAIL

THE white moth to the closing vine,
The bee to the open clover,

And the gipsy blood to the gipsy blood
Ever the wide world over.

Ever the wide world over, lass,

Ever the trail held true,

Over the world and under the world,
And back at the last to you.

Out of the dark of the gorgio camp,
Out of the grime and the gray
(Morning waits at the end of the world), :
Gipsy, come away!

The wild boar to the sun-dried swamp,

The red crane to her reed,

And the Romany lass to the Romany lad

By the tie of a roving breed.

Morning waits at the end of the world

Where winds unhaltered play,

Nipping the flanks of their plunging ranks,
Till the white sea-horses neigh.

The pied snake to the rifted rock,
The buck to the stony, plain,

And the Romany lass to the Romany lad,
And both to the road again.

Both to the road again, again!
Out of a clean sea-track-
Follow the cross of the gipsy trail
Over the world and back!

Follow the Romany patteran

North where the blue bergs sail,
And the bows are gray with the frozen spray,
And the masts are shod with mail.

Follow the Romany patteran

Sheer to the Austral Light,

Where the besom of God is the wild west wind,

Sweeping the sea-floors white.

Follow the Romany patteran
West to the sinking sun,

Till the junk-sails lift through the houseless drift,

And the east and the west are one,

Follow the Romany patteran

East where the silence broods

By a purple wave on an opal beach
In the hush of the Mahim woods.

The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky,
The deer to the wholesome wold,

And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid,
As it was in the days of old.

The Footpath Way

The heart of a man to the heart of a maid

Light of my tents, be fleet!

Morning waits at the end of the world,

And the world is all at our feet!

Rudyard Kipling [1865

1679

WANDERLUST

BEYOND the East the sunrise, beyond the West the sea,
And East and West the wanderlust that will not let me be;
It works in me like madness, dear, to bid me say good-by!
For the seas call and the stars call, and oh, the call of the sky!

I know not where the white road runs, nor what the blue hills are,

But man can have the sun for friend, and for his guide a star; And there's no end of voyaging when once the voice is heard, For the river calls and the road calls, and oh, the call of a bird!

Yonder the long horizon lics, and there by night and day
The old ships draw to home again, the young ships sail away;
And come I may, but go I must, and if men ask you why,
You may put the blame on the stars and the sun and the
white road and the sky!

Gerald Gould (1885-1916)

THE FOOTPATH WAY

THE winding road lies white and bare,
Heavy in dust that takes the glare;
The thirsty hedgerows and parched grass
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 [1861-

A Maine Trail

1681

A MAINE TRAIL

COME follow, heart upon your sleeve,
The trail, a-teasing by,

Past tasseled 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 shield you all winter from frosty eyes,

"Twill shield 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 God-
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;