The Call

I must be off where the green boughs beckon— Why should I linger to barter and reckon? The mart may pay me—the mart may cheat me, I have had enough of the huckster's din, The calm of the deep woods waits to greet me, (Heart of the high hills, take me in.) I must be off where the brooks are waking, Where birds are building and green leaves breaking. Why should the hold of an old task bind me? I know of an eyrie I fain would win Where a wind of the West shall seek me and find me, (Heart of my high hills, take me in.) I must be off where the stars are nearer, Where feet go swifter and eyes see clearer, Little I heed what the toilers name me— I have heard the call that to miss were sin, The April voices that clamour and claim me, (Heart of my high hills, take me in.)