Where the voice of the wind calls our wandering feet,
Through echoing forest and echoing street,
With lutes in our hands ever-singing we roam,
All men are our kindred, the world is our home.
Through echoing forest and echoing street,
With lutes in our hands ever-singing we roam,
All men are our kindred, the world is our home.
Our lays are of cities whose lustre is shed,The laughter and beauty of women long dead;
The sword of old battles, the crown of old kings,
And happy and simple and sorrowful things.
What hope shall we gather, what dreams shall we sow?
Where the wind calls our wandering footsteps we go.
No love bids us tarry, no joy bids us wait:
The voice of the wind
is the voice of our fate.
The sword of old battles, the crown of old kings,
And happy and simple and sorrowful things.
What hope shall we gather, what dreams shall we sow?
Where the wind calls our wandering footsteps we go.
No love bids us tarry, no joy bids us wait:
The voice of the wind
is the voice of our fate.
4 comments:
What a hauntingly beautiful poem!!! I am just soaking in its beauty!!! Thank you for this lovely post!!!! Your soul sparkles!~Janine XO
hello lady - thanks so much for coming by - glad you liked the poem - i loved it too - have a wonderful evening! jenean
O! how beautiful it must be just to roam and wander at will.
The Wandering Man
A man with no shadow.
yes, watcher, i think you must be right - in many ways, wonderful - thank you so much for coming by - your visits are always a welcoming spot in the day over here! have a great evening!
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