  Come tell us, you that travel far With brave or shabby merchandise, Have you saluted any star That goes uncourtiered in the skies? Do you remember leaf or wing Or brook the willows leant along, Or any small familiar thing That passed you as you went along? Or does the trade that is your lust Drive you as yoke-beasts driven apace, Making the world a road of dust From market-place to market-place? Your traffic in the grain, the wine, In purple and in cloth of gold, In treasure of the field and mine, In fables of the poets told,— But have you laughed the wine-cups dry And on the loaves of plenty fed, And walked, with all your banners high, In gold and purple garmented? And do you know the songs you sell And cry them out along the way? After your travel day by day Sinew and sap of life, or husk— Dead coffer-ware or kindled brain? And do you gather in the dusk To make your heroes live again? If the grey dust is over all, And stars and leaves and wings forgot, And your blood holds no festival— Go out from us; we need you not. But if you are immoderate men, Zealots of joy, the salt and sting And savour of life upon you—then We call you to our counselling. And we will hew the holy boughs To make us level rows of oars, And we will set our shining prows For strange and unadventured shores. Where the great tideways swiftliest run We will be stronger than the strong And sack the cities of the sun And spend our booty in a song. |
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