THE CURSE OF THE WANDERING FOOT.

By James Whitcomb Riley

All hope of rest withdrawn me?—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Nor hope of rest withdrawn us,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.