THE WAYFARER
Reading edition
Only the wind from the Seven Hills Can mate with the heart of me, And the mist, adrift on the cliffs at night, That blows from the dusky sea. Only the song of the flying stars Can reach to my muted soul, And speed my feet on the wild, free track That swings from Pole to Pole. I spell my lore from the sand of dreams, I sleep by eternal meres, My stirrup-cup is the kiss of dawn, My hearth is the boundless spheres.