I must get out to the woods again, to the whispering tree, and the birds a-wing, <br />Away from the haunts of pale-faced men, to the spaces wide where strength is king; <br />I must get out where the skies are blue and the air is clean and the rest is sweet, <br />Out where there's never a task to do or a goal to reach or a foe to meet. <br /> <br />I must get out on the trails once more that wind through shadowy haunts and cool, <br />Away from the presence of wall and door, and see myself in a crystal pool; <br />I must get out with the silent things, where neither laughter nor hate is heard, <br />Where malice never the humblest stings and no one is hurt by a spoken word. <br /> <br />Oh, I've heard the call of the tall white pine, and heard the call of the running brook; <br />I'm tired of the tasks which each day are mine, I'm weary of reading a printed book; <br />I want to get out of the din and strife, the clang and clamor of turning wheel, <br />And walk for a day where life is life, and the joys are true and the pictures real.<br /><br />Edgar Albert Guest<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-call-74/
