The Troubadour

THE wind blows salt from off the sea

And sweet from where the land lies green;

I travel down the great highway

That runs so straight and white between —

I watch the sea-wind strain the sheet,

The land-wind toss the yellow wheat!

Song is my mistress, fickle she,

Yet dear beyond all dearth of speech;

Child of the winds of land and sea

She charms me with the charm of each —

Full soft and sweet she sings and then

She sings wild songs for sailor-men!

No staff I carry in my hand,

No pack I carry on my back,

No foot of earth I call my own,

For castle or for cot I lack —

I travel fast, I travel slow,

And where my mistress bids I go!

My gems, the pearl upon the leaf

At mystic hour of the morn;

My gold, the gold that rims the sea

A moment ere the day is born;

And on my breezy couch o’ nights

The stars shine down — my taper lights!

Happy am I that sing of love,

Yet from the thrall of love am free;

Happy am I that sing of pain

And quick forget what pain may be!

I sing of death — and lo! To me

Life is supremest ecstacy!