The Curse Of The Wandering Foot by James Whitcomb Riley

All hope of rest withdrawn me?–
What dread command hath put
This awful curse upon me–
The curse of the wandering foot!
Forward and backward and thither,
And hither and yon again–
Wandering ever! And whither?
Answer them, God! Amen.

The blue skies are far o’er me—
The bleak fields near below:
Where the mother that bore me?–
Where her grave in the snow?–
Glad in her trough of a coffin–
The sad eyes frozen shut
That wept so often, often,
The curse of the wandering foot!

Here in your marts I care not
Whatsoever ye think.
Good folk many who dare not
Give me to eat and drink:
Give me to sup of your pity–
Feast me on prayers!–O ye,
Met I your Christ in the city
He would fare forth with me–

Forward and onward and thither,
And hither again and yon,
With milk for our drink together
And honey to feed upon–
Nor hope of rest withdrawn us,
Since the one Father put
The blessed curse upon us–
The curse of the wandering foot.

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