The Heart of the Road

I JOURNEY on an endless quest,
The eager miles are swift to run,
While up the hill and toward the west
My red leagues travel against the sun.

Behold, one journeyed in the night,
He sang amid the wind and rain;
My wet sands gave his feet delight.
When will that traveler come again ?

Some house them with their kin inside,
Some habit to the ends of earth ;
Strange is the heart of them that bide,
But I was fugitive from birth.

The folk that tarry are not my sons ;
My heart is all for them that roam ;
My thought goes with the wandering ones
That spend the night from home.

The weary folk lead to and fro,
And he is dear that takes no rest;
Mine are those feet that come and go,
But lo, my firstborn was my best !

“ Heart of the Road.” I heard him sing,
“ Whose thought is swift, whose ways are wild,
The mother of my wandering
Shall have the pilgrim for her child.”

How did he find me where I lay,
Remote, untraversed, and forespent ?
How blithe I journey since the day
That he conceived the ways I went!

That day that he fared forth alone
His feet besought me in their need.
I cried out of my dust and stone,
“ Lo, mine own breast shall make thee bleed ! ”

I cried out from my rock and steep,
“ My child I cannot give thee rest! ”
He moved the stone that grieved my sleep,
And soothed the sharp thorn from my breast.
Therefore my other sons are dear,
But still the firstborn is the best.

My will is in them night and day,
Men and the restless sons of men.
The paths are smooth wherein they stray.
When will that traveler come again ?

Thick as the dust, from unborn years,
I see my coming children throng.
That one who breaks the way with tears
Many shall follow with a song.

Nor bread, nor scrip, nor staff had he
When he went out from the gray town.
Now heavy folk that traverse me
Burdened with wealth go up and down.

Each unto each I hear them call
With idle speech and empty boast,
And I have ease to give them all
Save him that I did love the most.

But when one passes in the night,
And tarries not by any door ,
My leagues beat upward for delight, —
Perchance that traveler comes once more.

But when one journeys over me —
Nor staff nor scrip, through wind and rain —
I reach my dim hands out to see
If those old feet have come again.

Therefore upon an endless quest
My eager miles are swift to run,
While up the hill and toward the west
My red leagues travel against the sun.