There’s a cry from out the loneliness—oh, listen, Honey, listen!
Do you hear it, do you fear it, you’re a—holding of me so?
You’re a—sobbing in your sleep, dear, and your lashes, how they glisten—
Do you hear the Little Voices all a—begging me to go?
All a—begging me to leave you. Day and night they’re pleading, praying,
On the North—wind, on the West—wind, from the peak and from the plain;
Night and day they never leave me—do you know what they are saying?
“He was ours before you got him, and we want him once again.”
Yes, they’re wanting me, they’re haunting me, the awful lonely places;
They’re whining and they’re whimpering as if each had a soul;
They’re calling from the wilderness, the vast and God—like spaces,
The stark and sullen solitudes that sentinel the Pole.
They miss my little camp—fires, ever brightly, bravely gleaming
In the womb of desolation, where was never man before;
As comradeless I sought them, lion—hearted, loving, dreaming,
And they hailed me as a comrade, and they loved me evermore.
And now they’re all a—crying, and it’s no use me denying;
The spell of them is on me and I’m helpless as a child;
My heart is aching, aching, but I hear them, sleeping, waking;
It’s the Lure of Little Voices, it’s the mandate of the Wild.
I’m afraid to tell you, Honey, I can take no bitter leaving;
But softly in the sleep—time from your love I’ll steal away.
Oh, it’s cruel, dearie, cruel, and it’s God knows how I’m grieving;
But His loneliness is calling, and He knows I must obey.
Other works by Robert W. Service...
