There's music in my heart to-day;
The Master-hand is on the keys,
Calling me up to the windy hills
And down to the purple seas.
Let Time draw back when I hear that tune--
Old to the soul when the stars were new--
And swing the doors to the four great winds,
That my feet may wander through.
North or South, and East or West;
Over the rim with the bellied sails,
From the mountain's feet to the empty plains,
Or down the silent trails--
It matters not which door you choose;
The same clear tune blows through them all,
Though one harp leaps to the grind of seas
And one to the rain-bird's call.
However you hide in the city's din
And drown your ears with its siren songs,
Some day steal in those thin, wild notes,
And you leave the foolish throngs.
God grant that the day will find me not
When the tune shall mellow and thrill in vain--
So long as the plains are red with sun,
And the woods are black with rain.