The Questing Foot

Now that the blue-flag stirs at the root,
This is the time of the questing foot! —

Time to loiter and laze along,
With never a thought save of meadow-song,

Or of woodland silence that filters through
To your spirit's core like the balm of dew!

Only a wisp of a cloud above,
White as the dreams of the one you love.

Underneath, a turf whose sheen
Is the very glossiest gold and green;

A wind that lures you with subtle hints
Of upland balsams and lowland mints;

A something, —call it charm or spell, —
Elusive and intangible,

That leads one ever and ever away
On to the purple verge of day.

Now that the blue-flag stirs at the root,
O to fare on the questing foot!