The Curse Of The Wandering Foot.

    All hope of rest withdrawn me? -
        What dread command hath put
    This awful curse upon me -
        The curse of the wandering foot!
    Forward and backward and thither,
        And hither and yon again -
    Wandering ever!    And whither?
        Answer them, God!    Amen.

    The blue skies are far o'er me - -
        The bleak fields near below:
    Where the mother that bore me? -
        Where her grave in the snow? -
    Glad in her trough of a coffin -
        The sad eyes frozen shut
    That wept so often, often,
        The curse of the wandering foot!

    Here in your marts I care not
        Whatsoever ye think.
    Good folk many who dare not
        Give me to eat and drink:
    Give me to sup of your pity -
        Feast me on prayers! - O ye,
    Met I your Christ in the city
        He would fare forth with me -

    Forward and onward and thither,
        And hither again and yon,
    With milk for our drink together
        And honey to feed upon -
    Nor hope of rest withdrawn us,
        Since the one Father put
    The blesséd curse upon us -
        The curse of the wandering foot.

James Whitcomb Riley

James Whitcomb Riley was an American writer, poet, and best-selling author. He was known as the "Hoosier Poet" and the "Children's Poet" for his dialect works and children's poetry respectively. Over his career, Riley authored approximately 1,000 poems, including "Little Orphant Annie" and "The Raggedy Man". His influence extended into the 20th century, and his works continued to be celebrated for their nostalgic and rural themes.

James Whitcomb Riley

Through Sleepy-Land

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

The Bear-Story

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

His Mother.

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

The King

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

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The Wandering Jew.

    The stars are failing, and the sky
        Is like a field of faded flowers;
    The winds on weary wings go by;
        The moon hides, and the temptest lowers;
            And still through every clime and age
            I wander on a pilgrimage
            That all men know an idle quest,
            For that the goal I seek is - REST!

    I hear the voice of summer streams,
        And, following, I find the brink
    Of cooling springs, with childish dreams
        Returning as I bend to drink -
            But suddenly, with startled eyes,
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    I come upon a merry group
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James Whitcomb Riley

The Wandering Jew

The stars are falling, and the sky
Is like a field of faded flowers;
The winds on weary wings go by;
The moon hides, and the tempest lowers;
And still through every clime and age
I wander on a pilgrimage
That all men know an idle quest,
For that the goal I seek is - Rest!

I hear the voice of summer streams,
And following, I find the brink
Of cooling springs, with childish dreams
Returning as I bend to drink -
But suddenly, with startled eyes,
My face looks on its grim disguise
Of long gray beard; and so, distressed,
I hasten on, nor taste of rest.

I come upon a merry group
Of children in the dusky wood,
Who answer back the owlet's whoop,
That laughs as it had understood;
And I would pause a little space,
But that each happy...

James Whitcomb Riley

Because My Faltering Feet

Because my faltering feet may fail to dare
The first descendant of the steps of Hell
Give me the Word in time that triumphs there.
I too must pass into the misty hollow
Where all our living laughter stops: and hark!
The tiny stuffless voices of the dark
Have called me, called me, till I needs must follow:
Give me the Word and I'll attempt it well.

Say it's the little winking of an eye
Which in that issue is uncurtained quite;
A little sleep that helps a moment by
Between the thin dawn and the large daylight.
Ah! tell me more than yet was hoped of men;
Swear that's true now, and I'll believe it then.

Hilaire Belloc

An Out-Worn Sappho

How tired I am! I sink down all alone
Here by the wayside of the Present. Lo,
Even as a child I hide my face and moan -
A little girl that may no farther go;
The path above me only seems to grow
    More rugged, climbing still, and ever briered
With keener thorns of pain than these below;
And O the bleeding feet that falter so
    And are so very tired!

Why, I have journeyed from the far-off Lands
Of Babyhood - where baby-lilies blew
Their trumpets in mine ears, and filled my hands
With treasures of perfume and honey-dew,
And where the orchard shadows ever drew
    Their cool arms round me when my cheeks were fired
With too much joy, and lulled mine eyelids to,
And only let the starshine trickle through
    In sprays, when I was tired!

Ye...

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The Failing Track

Where went the feet that hitherto have come?
    Here yawns no gulf to quench the flowing past!
With lengthening pauses broke, the path grows dumb;
    The grass floats in; the gazer stands aghast.

Tremble not, maiden, though the footprints die;
    By no air-path ascend the lark's clear notes;
The mighty-throated when he mounts the sky
    Over some lowly landmark sings and floats.

Be of good cheer. Paths vanish from the wave;
    There all the ships tear each its track of gray;
Undaunted they the wandering desert brave:
    In each a magic finger points the way.

No finger finely touched, no eye of lark
    Hast thou to guide thy steps where footprints fail?
Ah, then, 'twere well to turn before the dark,
    Nor dream to find thy dreams in yonder...

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The Crooked Footpath

Ah, here it is! the sliding rail
That marks the old remembered spot, -
The gap that struck our school-boy trail, -
The crooked path across the lot.

It left the road by school and church,
A pencilled shadow, nothing more,
That parted from the silver-birch
And ended at the farm-house door.

No line or compass traced its plan;
With frequent bends to left or right,
In aimless, wayward curves it ran,
But always kept the door in sight.

The gabled porch, with woodbine green, -
The broken millstone at the sill, -
Though many a rood might stretch between,
The truant child could see them still.

No rocks across the pathway lie, -
No fallen trunk is o'er it thrown, -
And yet it winds, we know not why,
And turns as if for tree or stone...

Oliver Wendell Holmes