To The Road

Cool is the wind, for the summer is waning, Who 's for the road? Sun-flecked and soft, where the dead leaves are raining, Who 's for the road? Knapsack and alpenstock press hand and shoulder, Prick of the brier and roll of the boulder; This be your lot till the season grow older; Who 's for the road? Up and away in the hush of the morning, Who 's for the road? Vagabond he, all conventions a-scorning, Who 's for the road? Music of warblers so merrily singing, Draughts from the rill from the roadside up-springing, Nectar of grapes from the vines lowly swinging, These on the road. Now every house is a hut or a hovel, Come to the road: Mankind and moles in the dark love to grovel, But to the road. Throw off the loads that are bending you double; Love is for life, only labor is trouble; Truce to the town, whose best gift is a bubble: Come to the road!