Classic Poem

There is some little savour clinging
To the road's dust that rises.
We go swinging
Merrily Northward, and each footstep prizes
The wind athwart us and the dust that rises.
Sun in our eyes, and all the veld before us,
And in our hearts strange singing;
And for chorus
Tramp of our faring feet, and in the grasses
The ceaseless whisper of the wind that passes.

There is some little sadness clinging
To the road's dust that rises.
Without singing,
Steadily onward;—goes each step that prizes
The wind athwart us and the dust that rises.
Sun on the skyline, and the miles behind us,
Strange songs and sad are ringing
That remind us …
And beside us, in the silence of the grasses,
The ceaseless whisper of the wind that passes.