“Who are you there, walking past my gate?”

“A man of the road, my lady,

whose wings are his feet,

whose home is the highway,

whose friends are his staff and his song.”

“Where are you going, Man of the Road?”

“Over the hill, my lady,

on towards the mountains,

on towards the sea,

on with the call of the wind.”

“What are you seeking, Man of the Road?”

“The rainbow’s gold, my lady,

and the song of the lark,

and the sunset’s fire,

and the light of the moon on the sea.”

“How far will you go, Man of the Road?”

“How can I say, my lady?

Maybe a mile,

maybe a league,

maybe a hundred or more.”

“When will you return, Man of the Road?”

“I cannot tell, my lady.

Perhaps in a day,

perhaps in a year,

perhaps never more, never more.”

“Where will you stop, Man of the Road?”

“Where the sun meets the hill, my lady,

or where the moon rests,

or where the stars hide,

or where sky and the waves have touched.”

“Will we meet again, good Man of the Road?

“I hope we may, dear lady,

if the stars hold course,

if the road runs true,

and the wind blows fair on the highways.”