The Call

A poem by Virna Sheard

Across the dusty, foot-worn street
Unblessed of flower or tree,
Faint and far-off - there ever sounds
The calling of the sea.

From out the quiet of the hills,
Where purple shadows lie,
The pine trees murmur, "Come and rest
And let the world go by."

The west wind whispers all night long
"Oh, journey forth afar
To the green and pleasant places
Where little rivers are!"

And the soft and silken rustling
Of bending yellow wheat
Says, "See the harvest moon - that dims
The arc-lights of the street."

Though the city holds thee captive
By trick, and wile, and lure,
Out yonder lies the loveliness
Of things that shall endure.

The river road is wide and fair,
The prairie-path is free,
And still the old earth waits to give
Her strength and joy to thee.

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