The young moon like a sickle reaped
A field of stars and slept, night-steeped.
"I must be roving," said the boy,
And tightened up his swag of joy.
"My heart cries, 'Follow. Follow on!'
And, mother mine, I would be gone."
The woman at the hearth-stone wept.
The old man in the corner slept.
Oh, north and south and east and west
They travel old Fortune's road.
But never yet has a man found rest
Who carried the dreamer's load.
With whistling lips, by bend and creek,
He journeyed week by yellow week.
The wide bush-world of leaf and flower
He scorned in that adventurous hour,
Went singing, singing after him
Unto the blue horizon's rim.
"He'll come no more," the woman said.
The old man shuffled off to bed.
Oh, all the world is a man's to roam
On the land and the sea's green track;
But many a road that heads from home
Is the road he never comes back.
The old man's grave is green with grass.
He hears no more the blithe spring pass.
The house is quiet. Cold and shrill
The wind comes whistling up the hill.
And daily, when her toil is done,
And westward slopes the lonely sun,
The woman sets a meal for two,
And waits, and hopes the slow year through.
But north and south and east and west
He seeks, who never shall find
On the dreamer's road that knows no rest,
The good that he left behind.
First published in The Bulletin, 18 March 1920
