THE WAYFARERS

Young man with the keen blue eyes, Clear and bold! Why, as thou dost fare, With so searching air, Scannest thou each face thou dost behold, Each small flower, faint-coloured like the skies, Growing by the way? Why gazest thou O’er the round hill’s brow? “Ah, in every bearded face, Looking deep, My heart’s friend seek I! In each maiden shy My heart’s dearest, dreamed upon in sleep; And in each fair flower a hope I trace; And the hill may hide the flashing sea That doth call to me!”

Old man with the pale blue eyes, Mild and clear! Why, as thou dost fare, With that pondering air Into passing faces dost thou peer? Why dost pause, where dim like autumn skies Starry asters grow? Why gazest thou O’er the round hill’s brow? “Ah, from each gray-bearded face Would I know What that heart hath found; And in youths that bound See a youth who vanished long ago! In each flower a memory can I trace; O’er the hill the green, still place may be That doth wait for me!”