Tramper's Wind

There s a wind that is calling me up to the hills,
And it sings as it dances of things that enthrall me—
Of windy brown ridges and masses of broom
Of foam over rocks—and it's down here to call me
Up to the hills,
Up to the hills,
And over the hills to the sea!

There's a trampers' wind, calling me: why should I stay
In the four-cornered closeness of rooms in the valley?
The wind is here, swirling through streets dull and grey,
Only waiting to lead me up—why do I dally
To go to the hills,
Go to the hills,
And over the hills to the sea?

Oh, I'll follow the wind to the blue open spaces,
Up little green valleys where trees will impede me,
On tracks that go crossing, that dwindle and fade,
Over streams or on grass with a wind that will lead me
Up to the hills,
Up to the hills,
And over the hills to the sea!

Oh, I'll race with the clouds on the top of the world,
And I'll laugh with the sun as I climb through its brightness!
(And over the ridge is the sea with its blueness,
Its yachts and its beach, and the surge in its whiteness . . .)
I'll climb to the ridge!
Climb to the ridge
And over the ridge to the sea!

—Esme T.