What makes us wander? The west wind's call and cry
When frost is on the stubble? The harvest moon
Crowning the hill-road? The diffused noon
Of summer and reaches of unruffled sky?
Sunset? Or sea? Or rivers gliding by
Around the bluffs? Or snow against the face?
Or some dim sense of earth itself in space,
When at the spring the wild geese northward fly?

Is it in the blood? — impulse of veined feet
And sinewy thighs that wither if they rest?
Is it in the soul? — to whom the Incomplete
Is challenge to the immemorial quest,
The soul that leaves To-day in winding sheet
For some To-morrow with stars upon its breast.