A poem by Rudyard Kipling Now the Four-way Lodge is opened, now the Hunting Winds are loose, Now the Smokes of Spring go up to clear the brain; Now the Young Mens hearts are troubled for the whisper of the Trues, Now the Red Gods make their medicine again! Who hath seen the beaver busied? Who hath watched the black-tail mating? Who hath lain alone to hear the wild-goose cry? Who hath worked the chosen water where the ouananiche is waiting, Or the sea-trouts jumping-crazy for the fly? He must go, go, go away from here! On the other side the world hes overdue. Send your road is clear before you when the old Spring-fret comes oer you, And the Red Gods call for you! So for one the wet sail arching through the rainbow round the bow, And for one the creak of snow-shoes on the crust; And for one the lakeside lilies where the bull-moose waits the cow, And for one the mule-train coughing in the dust. Who hath smelt wood-smoke at twilight? Who hath heard the birch-log burning? Who is quick to read the noises of the night? Let him follow with the others, for the Young Mens feet are turning Too the camps of proved desire and known delight! Let him go, go, etc. I Do you know the blackened timber, do you know that racing stream With the raw, right-angled log-jam at the end; And the bar of sun-warmed shingle where a man may bask and dream To the click of shod canoe-poles round the bend? It is there that we are going with our rods and reels and traces, To a silent, smoky Indian that we know, To a couch of new-pulled hemlock, with the starlight on our faces, For the Red Gods call us out and we must go!
Posted on: Sun, 24 Nov 2013 12:33:34 +0000
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