By marsh and tide, by meadow and stream, A will-o'-the-wind, a light-o'-dream,
Delusion afar, delight anear, From morrow to morrow, from year to year,
A jack-o'-lantern, a fairy fire, A dare, a bliss, and a desire!
The racy smell of the forest loam, When the stealthy, sad-heart leaves go home;
(O leaves, O leaves, I am one with you, Of the mould and the sun and the wind and the dew!)
The broad gold wake of the afternoon; The silent fleck of the cold new moon;
The sound of the hollow sea's release From stormy tumult to starry peace;
With only another league to wend; And two brown arms at the journey's end!
These are the joys of the open road-- For him who travels without a load.
Oh, to feel the fresh breeze blowing From lone ridges yet untrod! Oh, to see the far peak growing Whiter as it climbs to God!
Where the silver streamlet rushes I would follow--follow on Till I heard the happy thrushes Piping lyrics to the dawn.
I would hear the wild rejoicing Of the wind-blown cedar tree, Hear the sturdy hemlock voicing Ancient epics of the sea.
Forest aisles would I be winding, Out beyond the gates of Care; And, in dim cathedrals, finding Silence at the shrine of Prayer.
When the mystic night comes stealing Through my vast, green room afar, Never king had richer ceiling-- Beaded bough and yellow star!
Ah, to list the sacred preaching Of the forest's faithful fir, With his strong arms upward reaching-- Mighty, trustful worshipper!
Come and learn the joy of living! Come and you will understand How the sun his gold is giving With a great, impartial hand!
How the patient pine is climbing, Year by year to gain the sky; How the rill makes sweetest rhyming, Where the deepest shadows lie.
I am nearer the great Giver, Where His handiwork is crude; Friend am I of peak and river, Comrade of old Solitude.
Not for me the city's riot! Not for me the towers of Trade! I would seek the house of Quiet, That the Master Workman made!
To Meath of the pastures, From wet hills by the sea, Through Leitrim and Longford, Go my cattle and me.
I hear in the darkness Their slipping and breathing-- I name them the bye-ways They're to pass without heeding;
Then, the wet, winding roads, Brown bogs with black water; And my thoughts on white ships And the King o' Spain's daughter.