Call to me, call to me, fields of poppied wheat!
Purple thistles by the road call me to return!
Now a thousand shriller throats echo down the street,
And I cannot hear the wind camping in the fern.
Little leaves beside the trail dance your way to town,
Till you find your brother here who remembers yet;
For though a river runs between and the bridge is down,
I've a heart that's roaming and a soul that won't forget.
A sun squats on the house-tops, but his face is hard and dry;
A rain walks up and down the streets, but her voice is harsh--
Sunlight is a different thing where the swallows fly,
And rain-tongues sing with sweeter voice when they're on the marsh.
Once a thousand bending blades stoop to let me pass,
When I sped barefooted through your crowding lines--
Whisper to me gently in the language of the grass,
How I watched the crows of night nest among the pines.
Still the golden pollen smokes, silver runs the rain,
Still the timid mists creep out when the sun lies down--
Oh, I am weary waiting to return to you again,
So take a pale, familiar face out beyond the town.