The Footfarer

Now that Spring is in the land, Now that April wakes the wood, I would take my scrip in hand, Roving with old Solitude. I would leave the haunts of men, All the rabble of the mart; I would be a child again, Close upon my Mother's heart. Being kin to every star In the marvellous Spring nights, I would journey forth afar, Drinking in long-lost delights. For the world was made for me, I who love her music so; I was meant for Arcady, Where the April tides sing low. I would lie upon the breast Of my Mother all day long-- She who eases my unrest With her musical low song. She it is who calls me forth When the Springtide winds begin, That, in faring south or north, I can cease to think of sin; Yea, and even when the rain Of sweet April falls on me, I can hear a beloved refrain In the welcome minstrelsy; Glad because I am without, Following my vagrant will, Putting all my cares to rout When I feel the first new thrill. Mother! I would forth with you, I would take your outstreched hand; Let us fare amid the dew, Now that Spring is in the land.