Classic Poem

It would be a fine thing
To be flying, to be flying under a cool moon
As the point of an arrow of wings loosed to the north,
To be a great gray Canada goose flying under the moon
Honking high among the winds.

It would be fine thing
To be a sailor, measuring a ship with his eye,
Carrying his suit-case down to a forecastle locker,
Hearing the water slap slap slapping at the sides of a vessel,
Shaping a yarn in his mind.

Where have the pedlers gone,
The old-fashioned pedlers walking the dusty roads
With umbrellas slung to their backs, whistling and chewing a straw?
Where are the harmless, half-witted fellows who felt spring in their bones
And set out on the long roads?