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!
