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A poem by Edgar A. Guest

The Call Of The Woods

Title:     The Call Of The Woods
Author: Edgar A. Guest [More Titles by Guest]

I must get out to the woods again, to the whispering trees and the birds awing,

Away from the haunts of pale-faced men, to the spaces wide where strength is king;

I must get out where the skies are blue and the air is clean and the rest is sweet,

Out where there's never a task to do or a goal to reach or a foe to meet.

I must get out on the trails once more that wind through shadowy haunts and cool,

Away from the presence of wall and door, and see myself in a crystal pool;

I must get out with the silent things, where neither laughter nor hate is heard,

Where malice never the humblest stings and no one is hurt by a spoken word.

Oh, I've heard the call of the tall white pine, and heard the call of the running brook;

I'm tired of the tasks which each day are mine; I'm weary of reading a printed book.

I want to get out of the din and strife, the clang and clamor of turning wheel,

And walk for a day where life is life, and the joys are true and the pictures real.

[The end]
Edgar A. Guest's poem: Call Of The Woods