English poem
The Troubadour
by Isabel Ecclestone Mackay (1875–1928)
THE wind blows salt from off the sea And sweet from where the land lies green; I travel down the great highway That runs so straight and white between— I watch the sea-wind strain the sheet, The land-wind toss the yellow wheat!
Song is my mistress, fickle she, Yet dear beyond all dearth of speech; Child of the winds of land and sea She charms me with the charm of each— Full soft and sweet she sings and then She sings wild songs for sailor-men!
No staff I carry in my hand, No pack I carry on my back, No foot of earth I call my own, For castle or for cot I lack— I travel fast, I travel slow, And where my mistress bids I go!
My gems, the pearl upon the leaf At mystic hour of the morn; My gold, the gold that rims the sea A moment ere the day is born; And on my breezy couch o' nights The stars shine down—my taper lights!
Happy am I that sing of love, Yet from the thrall of love am free; Happy am I that sing of pain And quick forget what pain may be! I sing of death—and lo! To me Life is supremest ecstacy!