Come! and away to the Garden of Pan, and hear what the Pipes are playing! Hark to the Voice of a splendid Peace calling from hill and river and sea! Come! and away to the old Earth Mother, giver of gifts without the praying, There, in the hills Her throne is set, and the thoughts of men are free.
THE RETURN
I must go down to the little grey port that watches the western sea, And wander again in the winding street that climbs the windy hill, There I shall find in a jasmined porch a door set wide for me, There I shall have my will.
For a little window looks out by day on a blue unsleeping tide, Where brown-sailed boats sweep up and down for the harvest of the deep; And nightly beacons a twinkling light to wanderers scattered wide, And guides them home to sleep.
And the flowing tide comes flooding in and chants around the quay A roaring song from the Ocean's heart of the lands that are fair and far; And the ebbing tide goes sobbing out, murmuring wistfully Over the harbour bar.
There I shall stand among men who are strong with the strength of the wind and the wave, And hold simple talk with men who are wise with the wisdom of sky and sea; There I shall find in a patient endurance the sure-set faith of the brave, There shall my heart be free.