The wanderer is always earnest
He scans the forest with his eye
The cares of home bestir no tempest
But like a flock of blue birds fly.
–
His mouth is still: no smile nor frown
For such are worn in human play
But here, where neither home nor town
Is seen, the trees their calm convey.
–
His arms sway soundless, slow and sure
The wake is made through brush and thorn
A beaten heart is rendered pure
Of the riddling greed in which ’twas born.
–
The power of silence sculpts his soul
Ignoring the “piffles” of muted feet
Like an Ent he roams o’er hills that roll
As life within seeks life to meet.
–
All this the wand’rer knows full well
And journeys on, but to what end?
His tales no man will ever tell
Unless he takes with him a friend
–
A friend to share the load he bears
To turn his face from bark to beam
To draw his heart with human cares
And lead him to the mountain stream
–
The sparkling brook that brings him home
Where fears are stilled and hurts can mend
To this the wand’rer at last will come
When he has found a staying friend.
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