To The Road

Cool is the wind, for the summer is waning,     Who 's for the road?     Sun-flecked and soft, where the dead leaves are raining,     Who 's for the road?     Knapsack and alpenstock press hand and shoulder,     Prick of the brier and roll of the boulder;     This be your lot till the season grow older;     Who 's for the road?     Up and away in the hush of the morning,     Who 's for the road?     Vagabond he, all conventions a-scorning,     Who 's for the road?     Music of warblers so merrily singing,     Draughts from the rill from the roadside up-springing,     Nectar of grapes from the vines lowly swinging,     These on the road.     Now every house is a hut or a hovel,     Come to the road:     Mankind and moles in the dark love to grovel,     But to the road.     Throw off the loads that are bending you double;     Love is for life, only labor is trouble;     Truce to the town, whose best gift is a bubble:     Come to the road!