Cool is the wind, for the summer is waning,
    Who 's for the road?
Sun-flecked and soft, where the dead leaves are raining,
    Who 's for the road?
Knapsack and alpenstock press hand and shoulder,
Prick of the brier and roll of the boulder;
This be your lot till the season grow older;
    Who 's for the road?

Up and away in the hush of the morning,
    Who 's for the road?
Vagabond he, all conventions a-scorning,
    Who 's for the road?
Music of warblers so merrily singing,
Draughts from the rill from the roadside up-springing,
Nectar of grapes from the vines lowly swinging,
    These on the road.

Now every house is a hut or a hovel,
    Come to the road:
Mankind and moles in the dark love to grovel,
    But to the road.
Throw off the loads that are bending you double;
Love is for life, only labor is trouble;
Truce to the town, whose best gift is a bubble:
    Come to the road!

This work was published before January 1, 1925, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.