THE FAR-CALLED
The French peasants have a belief that if a green bough be found upon the cradle of a new-born child the fairies have called that child to wander far in quest of other-worldly things all its mortal life.
When on the bed of birth I lay
Out of the dark one came,
And laid the green bough on my head
And kissed my lips with flame;
And whispered in my ear the call
I may no more deny;
Nor ever drown in lesser sound
Until the hour I die.
And though my feet go down the street
They feel not wood and stone;
But tread the floor of forests far,
And uplands wide and lone:
And eyes like clouds blown through with rain
Turn pleading-like to me—
Their sorrow I may stay to ease,
But not their gladness see.
I know the roads my kindred take
To gain and gear and home,
I turn and bid them all Godspeed—
And yet I may not come.
I know the good of gain and gear,
And hearth alight with love—
Bide ye that may—I cannot stay,
That seeking still must rove.
And little camp-fires in the dark
Send out their light to me;
And little sweet, low voices call:
“O traveller, who are ye,
That goes so fast, that goes so far
Along the hidden night,
As if ye sought some radiant star,
Nor ever camp-fire’s light?”
But for my soul I may not turn,
My feet are strong and swift;
I go to find beyond the wind
Where unknown mountains lift,
The tree where-from the green bough came,
The voice that calls to me;
Visions more bright than star or light,
That lead and beckon me.