Wayside lute / Lizette Woodworth Reese [electronic text]

THE WAYFARER

THERE is but little that I know, A wayfarer blown to and fro; Spheres, empires, gods go down the wind: But these are what they leave behind —

The common toils, the village mirth; The fagot crackling on the hearth; The wind, the sun, the frost, the dew; The roadside grass with flower of blue.

There is but little that I know, A wayfarer blown to and fro; Beauty is not kept on a shelf, For grudging dole; God gives Himself.

Without the village fences pent, Such purple and such pink are spent, That we should pray to be indeed, Humble and lovely as a weed.

Life is but a small rainy day Betwixt two dusks; but in its gray Enough of light for me, for you Our something or our naught to do.

There is but little that I know, A wayfarer blown to and fro; Now this the sum of our deserts: We sow our healings and our hurts.

And ever is there chance to run A somewhat nearer to the sun; Out of our very shames to press Unto the skirts of righteousness.

Life ends. For us and all our kind, Enough of light a roof to find; And after, long and long to see, That Love has never let us be.