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Rudyard Kipling - The Feet of the Young Men
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Now the Four-way Lodge is opened, now the Hunting Winds are loose —
  Now the Smokes of Spring go up to clear the brain;
Now the Young  Men`s hearts are troubled for the whisper of the Trues,
  Now the Red Gods make their medicine again!
Who hath seen the beaver busied? Who hath watched the black-tail mating?
  Who hath lain alone to hear the wild-goose cry`
Who hath worked the chosen water where the ouananiche is waiting,
  Or the sea-trout`s jumping-crazy for the fly?

He must go — go — go away from here!
On the other side the world he`s overdue.
`Send your road is clear before you where the old Spring-fret comes o`er you,
And the Red Gods call for you!

So for one the wet sail arching through the rainbow-round the bow,
  And for one the creak of snow-shoes on the crust;
And for one the lakeside lilies where the bull-moose waits the cow,
  And for one the mule-train coughing in the dust.
Who hath smelt smelt-smoke at twilight? Who hath heard the birch-log burning?
  Who is quick to read the noises of the night?
Let him follow with the others for the Young Men`s feet are turning
  Too the camps of proved desire and known delight!

Let him  go — go, etc.


                               I

Do you know the blackened timber — do you know that racing stream
  With the raw, right-angled log-jam at the end;
And the bar of sun-warmed shingle where a man may bask and dream
  To the click of shod canoe-poles round the bend`
I is there that we are going with our rods and reels and traces,
  To a silent, smoky Indian that we know —
To a couch of new-pulled hemlock, with the starlight on our faces,
  For the Red Gods call us out and we must go!

They must go — go, etc.
    

                              II

Do you know the shallow Baltic where the seas are steep and short,
  Where the bluff, lee-boarded fishing-luggers ride?
Do you know the joy of threshing leagues to leeward of your port
  On a coast you`ve lost the chart of overside?
It is there that I am going, with an extra hand to bale her —
  Just one able `long-shore loafer that I know.
He can take his chance of drowning, while I sail and sail and sail her,
  For the Red Gods call me out and I must go!

He must go — go, etc.


                              III

Do you know the pile-built village where the sago-dealers trade —
  Do you know the reek of fish and wet bamboo?
Do you know the steaming stillness of the orchid-scented glade
  When the blazoned, bird-winged butterflies flap through?
It is there that I am going with my camphor, net, and boxes,
  To a gentle, yellow pirate that I know —
To my little wailing lemurs, to my palms and flying-foxes,
  For the Red Gods call me out and I must go!
  
He must go — go, etc.

    
                              IV

Do you know the world`s white roof-tree — do you know that windy rift
  Where the baffling mountain-eddies chop and change?
Do you know the long day`s patience, belly-down on frozen drift,
  While the head of heads is feeding out of range?
It is there that I am going, where the boulders and the snow lie,
  With a trusty, nimble tracker that I know.
I have sworn an oath, to keep it on the Horns of Ovis Poli,
  And the Red Gods call me out and I must go!
  
He must go — go, etc.

How the Four-way Lodge is opened — now the Smokes of Council rise —
  Pleasant smokes, ere yet `twixt trail and trail they choose —
Now the girths and ropes are tested: now they pack their last supplies:
  Now our Young Men go to dance before the Trues!
Who shall meet them at those altars — who shall light them to that shrine?
  Velvet-footed, who shall guide them to their goal?
Unto each the voice and vision: unto each his spoor and sign —
Lonely mountain in the Northland, misty sweat-bath `neath the Line —
  And to each a man that knows his naked soul!
  
White or yellow, black or copper, he is waiting, as a lover,
  Smoke of funnel, dust of hooves, or beat of train —
Where the high grass hides the horseman or the glaring flats discover —
Where the steamer hails the landing, or the surf-boat brings the rover —
Where the rails run out in sand-rift . . . Quick! ah, heave the camp-kit over,   
  For the Red Gods make their medicine again!
  
And we go — go — go away from here!
On the other side the world we`re overdue!
`Send the road is clear before you when the old Spring-fret comes o`er you,
And the Red Gods call for you!
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