They’re all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
They’re God’s own guides on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.
Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start—
We’re steaming all too slow,
And it’s twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle
Where the trumpet-orchids blow!
You have heard the call of the off-shore wind
And the voice of the deep-sea rain:
You have heard the song—how long! how long!
Pull out on the trail again!