The Curse Of The Wandering Foot.

A poem by James Whitcomb Riley

All hope of rest withdrawn me? -
What dread command hath put
This awful curse upon me -
The curse of the wandering foot!
Forward and backward and thither,
And hither and yon again -
Wandering ever! And whither?
Answer them, God! Amen.

The blue skies are far o'er me - -
The bleak fields near below:
Where the mother that bore me? -
Where her grave in the snow? -
Glad in her trough of a coffin -
The sad eyes frozen shut
That wept so often, often,
The curse of the wandering foot!

Here in your marts I care not
Whatsoever ye think.
Good folk many who dare not
Give me to eat and drink:
Give me to sup of your pity -
Feast me on prayers! - O ye,
Met I your Christ in the city
He would fare forth with me -

Forward and onward and thither,
And hither again and yon,
With milk for our drink together
And honey to feed upon -
Nor hope of rest withdrawn us,
Since the one Father put
The blesséd curse upon us -
The curse of the wandering foot.