Art thou the Bird whom Man loves best,
The pious Bird with the scarlet breast,
Our little English Robin;
The Bird that comes about our doors
When Autumn winds are sobbing?
Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors?
Their Thomas in Finland,
And Russia far inland?
The Bird, whom by some name or other
All men who know thee call their Brother, 
The Darling of Children and men?
Could Father Adam open his eyes,
And see this sight beneath the skies,
He'd wish to close them again.

If the Butterfly knew but his friend
Hither his flight he would bend,
And find his way to me
Under the branches of the tree:
In and out, he darts about;
His little heart is throbbing: 
Can this be the Bird, to man so good,
Our consecrated Robin!
That, after their bewildering,
Did cover with leaves the little children,
So painfully in the wood?

What ail'd thee Robin that thou could'st pursue
A beautiful Creature,
That is gentle by nature?
Beneath the summer sky
From flower to flower let him fly; 
'Tis all that he wishes to do.

The Chearer Thou of our in-door sadness,
He is the Friend of our summer gladness:
What hinders, then, that ye should be
Playmates in the sunny weather,
And fly about in the air together?
Like the hues of thy breast
His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,
A brother he seems of thine own:
If thou would'st be happy in thy nest, 
O pious Bird! whom Man loves best,
Love him, or leave him alone!

Row ye well; for my purpose stands,
And I am weary of meadowlands. 
I'm sick of sowing and reaping folk, 
Of arled herdsmen and beasts in yoke. 

My arms are rusty, my silken gear 
I've bartered for kisses not warm or dear; 
The kisses fail me, my gold being spent, 
And I go on the path the old gods went. 

Oh, fair are the women of stead and town, 
But softer heart 'neath a vadmal gown 
Has beaten for me, and eyes more fair 
Have smiled for me under unbound hair. 

But it comes to me, as it comes to all,
That I am weary of folk in hall,
That laughter of women falls on my ear 
As cold as the splatter of water clear. 

It comes to me from the board to rise 
As the old gods did, with unloving eyes,
When they sat at the feast and they drank brown ale, 
And they heard the wind through a flapping sail. 

And gold though the trees of Glasir stood, 
And bold though the vaunt of the giant brood, 
They passed from fray and they passed from feast,
And all the tale of their greatness ceased. 

They were gods, but they knew what the strong sea says, 
To men grown weary of easy days; 
They were gods, and answered a dearer call 
Than the voices of folk that loved them all. 

What signs were set in the Norland sky 
I know not. They followed, and so will I, 
For portent above or for sign below 
There's none will pause when the sea-winds blow. 

We'll out and away on the calling sea, 
And the wind shall take us where we would be,
Till we lose all knowledge of star or breeze, 
And push our helm into shoreless seas,

Where the sleeping girth of the Midgards-orm 
Lies round the earth, till the last great storm 
Breaks on the homesteads, and faring-folk,
And the world grows dim towards Ragnarok. 

Till the Twilight come, and our oar-blades fail,
On the outland seas we will set our sail,
And talk with the gods that we chance to meet 
Of the voice that called to their wayward feet. 

Though we met no gods and we saw no star, 
And drifted, alive, where the dead seas are,
Yet our path were safer, our guide more kind 
Than paths and voices we leave behind. 

We are well away, and content were I 
To sail for ever, and never die!