The Trail

I am hearing the call of the North again Now the forests are turning green. The pines lift their heads to the April rain,— (I am hearing the call of the North again!) And the birches are decked like little brides In gowns of a silver sheen.

I must go back to a star-lit hill And a lonely cabin I know; For an old brown hunter, steadfast and still, With faithfulness that no time can kill, Is shading his eyes from the setting sun And watching the trail below.

I must go back to paths that are mine And that lure no travelling feet, Save those that are swift as the wind, and fine; That make no sound, and that leave no sign;- I must go where the heron builds her nest— And the night is sane and sweet.

I am hearing the call of the North again, To beauty untouched and unmarred, To the doorless temples, built not in vain;— I, and my soul, must go back again;— To the temples where joy walks unafraid, And the aisles are flower-starred.