To wander where the dewdrops drip from off the silent trees, And where the hairy spiders spin their nets of silver, fragile thin, And out to where the fields begin, like down upon the breeze. Into a silver pool to plunge, and like a great trout wheel and lunge Among the lily-bonnets and the stars reflected there; With face upturned to lie afloat, with moonbeams rippling round my throat, And from the slimy grasses plait a chaplet for my hair. Then, leaping' from my rustic bath, to take some winding meadow-path: Across the fields of aftermath to run with flying feet, And feel the dewdrop-weighted grass that bends beneath me as I pass, Where solemn trees in shadowy mass beyond the highway meet. And, plunging deep within the woods, among the leaf-hung solitudes Where scarce one timid star intrudes into the breathless gloom, Go leaping down some fern-hid way to scare the rabbits in their play, And see the owl, a fantom gray, drift by on silent plume. To fling me down at length and rest upon some damp and mossy nest, And hear the choir of surpliced frogs strike up a bubbling tune; And watch, above the dreaming trees, Orion and the Hyades And all the stars, like golden bees, around the lily-moon. Then who can say if I have gone a-gipsying from dusk till dawn In company with fay and faun, where firefly-lanterns gleam? The Foreloper 1703 And have I danced on cobwebs thin to Master Locust's mandolin Or I have spent the night in bed, and was it all a dream? Victor Starbuck [1887 SONG From "The Way of Perfect Love" SOMETHING calls and whispers, along the city street, Past the quivering poplars that tell of water near Sweet to dream and linger, in windless orchard close, But all the time are glowing, beyond this little world, THE FORELOPER THE gull shall whistle in his wake, the blind wave break in fire, He shall fulfill God's utmost will unknowing His desire; hand To wring his food from a desert nude, his foothold from the sand. His neighbors' smoke shall vex his eyes, their voices break his rest, He shall go forth till South is North, sullen and dispossessed. And he shall desire loneliness, and his desire shall bring Hard on his heels a thousand wheels, a people, and a king; And he shall come back in his own track, and by his scarce cool camp; There he shall meet the roaring street, the derrick, and the stamp; For he must blaze a nation's ways with hatchet and with brand, Till on his last-won wilderness an Empire's bulwarks stand. Rudyard Kipling [1865 THE LONG TRAIL THERE'S a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield, And the ricks stand gray to the sun, Singing: "Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover, And your English summer's done." You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind, And the thresh of the deep-sea rain; You have heard the song-how long! how long! Ha' done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass, We've seen the seasons through, And it's time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new! It's North you may run to the rime-ringed sun, Or South to the blind Horn's hate; Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay, Or West to the Golden Gate; Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass, And the wildest tales are true, And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, And life runs large on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new. The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray and old, And the twice-breathed airs blow damp; And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll Of a black Bilbao tramp; The Long Trail With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass, And a drunken Dago crew, 1705 And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new. There be triple ways to take, of the cagle or the snake, But the sweetest way to me is a ship's upon the sea Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass, And the drum of the racing screw, As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, As she lifts and 'scends on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new? See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore, And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate, And the fall-rope whines through the sheave; It's "Gang-plank up and in," dear lass, It's "Hawsers warp her through!" And it's "All clear aft" on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're backing down on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new. O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied, When foot by foot we creep o'er the hueless viewless deep It's down by the Lower Hope, dear lass, With the Gunfleet Sands in view, Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new. O the blazing tropic night, when the wake's a welt of light That holds the hot sky tame, And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powdered floors Where the scared whale flukes in flame! Her plates are scarred by the sun, dear lass, And her ropes are taut with the dew, For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're sagging south on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new. Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb, And the shouting seas drive by, And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing, And the Southern Cross rides high! Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass, That blaze in the velvet blue. They're all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, They're God's own guides on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new. Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the StartWe're steaming all too slow, And it's twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle Where the trumpet-orchids blow! You have heard the call of the off-shore wind And the voice of the deep-sea rain; You have heard the song-how long-how long? Pull out on the trail again! The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass, And the Deuce knows what we may do But we're back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're down, hull down, on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new! Rudyard Kipling [1865 |