The Far-Called

The French peasants have a belief that if a green bough be found upon the cradle of a new-born child the fairies have called that child to wander far in quest of other-worldly things all its mortal life.

When on the bed of birth I lay Out of the dark one came, And laid the green bough on my head And kissed my lips with flame; And whispered in my ear the call I may no more deny; Nor ever drown in lesser sound Until the hour I die.

And though my feet go down the street They feel not wood and stone; But tread the floor of forests far, And uplands wide and lone: And eyes like clouds blown through with rain Turn pleading-like to me-- Their sorrow I may stay to ease, But not their gladness see.

I know the roads my kindred take To gain and gear and home, I turn and bid them all Godspeed-- And yet I may not come. I know the good of gain and gear, And hearth alight with love-- Bide ye that may--I cannot stay, That seeking still must rove.

And little camp-fires in the dark Send out their light to me; And little sweet, low voices call: “O traveller, who are ye, That goes so fast, that goes so far Along the hidden night, As if ye sought some radiant star, Nor ever camp-fire’s light?”

But for my soul I may not turn, My feet are strong and swift; I go to find beyond the wind Where unknown mountains lift, The tree where-from the green bough came, The voice that calls to me; Visions more bright than star or light, That lead and beckon me.