Classic Poem

All the way to Tremazan,
Weather foul and weather fair,
Through the wheat by Treompan,
Past the cross at Bar-Alann,
Shores and farms of Finistere.

Down the winding roads we go,
Comrades through the changeful day;
Early dawn to evening-glow
Not a gift the skies bestow
But is ours along the way:

Cuckoos calling in the field,
Poppies flaming in the wheat,
Odors moistened meadows yield,
Bright sea-glimpses far revealed,
And the distant surge's beat;

Night where'er the highway led —
Town, or debit by the sands —
Food before us freely spread,
Then our tapers and to bed
Dreaming of the morrow-lands:

Winding roads and broom-lit walls,
White-capped maidens, stony stiles,
Click of sabots , children's calls,
Belfries whence clear music falls
Over green-and-golden miles!

Brief the time; but one more stave
We must chant beneath the sky;
Once more down the gloaming greve
Sleep shall tread the sleepless wave
To our beds — and then, Good-bye,

Ploudalmezeau, sweet Lampaul,
Far Trez-Hir! Without a care
We have won your pilgrim's dole,
Song and dream and peace of soul
'Mid the fields of Finistere!