 | The poet, the fool and the faeries |  |
130
“I HEAR THE WOODLANDS CALLING”
I hear the woodlands calling, and their red is like the blare
Of trumpets in the air,
Where rebel Autumn plants her tents and crowns her gypsy hair.
Of trumpets in the air,
Where rebel Autumn plants her tents and crowns her gypsy hair.
I hear her beauty calling glad, with crimson and with gold,
As oft it called of old;
And I must forth and greet her there and clasp her close and hold.
As oft it called of old;
And I must forth and greet her there and clasp her close and hold.
As yesterday, again to-day, my heart will run to her,
The gypsy wanderer,
Through scarlet of the berry-pod and purple of the burr.
The gypsy wanderer,
Through scarlet of the berry-pod and purple of the burr.
The vines that vision forth her cheeks shall tell me where she lies,
Soft gazing at the skies;
And I will steal upon her dreams and look into her eyes.
Soft gazing at the skies;
And I will steal upon her dreams and look into her eyes.
131
The sumach that repeats her lips shall tell me where she smiles,
Who still my heart beguiles,
And I will speak her face to face and lounge with her for miles.
Who still my heart beguiles,
And I will speak her face to face and lounge with her for miles.
A riot and a tangle there, a blur of gold and gray;
She surely went this way—
Or, so it seems, the maples cry, the cloudy asters say.
She surely went this way—
Or, so it seems, the maples cry, the cloudy asters say.
Oh, I must up and strike the trail, that often I have gone,
At sunset and at dawn,
Where all the beauty of the world puts all her splendor on.
At sunset and at dawn,
Where all the beauty of the world puts all her splendor on.
I hear her bugles on the hills; I see her banners blowing,
And all her campfires glowing,—
The campfires of her dreams,—and I—I must be up and going.
And all her campfires glowing,—
The campfires of her dreams,—and I—I must be up and going.
| The poet, the fool and the faeries | |