WHERE the voice of the wind calls our wandering feet, <br />Through echoing forest and echoing street, <br />With lutes in our hands ever-singing we roam, <br />All men are our kindred, the world is our home. <br />Our lays are of cities whose lustre is shed, <br />The laughter and beauty of women long dead; <br />The sword of old battles, the crown of old kings, <br />And happy and simple and sorrowful things. <br />What hope shall we gather, what dreams shall we sow? <br />Where the wind calls our wandering footsteps we go. <br />No love bids us tarry, no joy bids us wait: <br />The voice of the wind is the voice of our fate.<br /><br />Sarojini Naidu<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wandering-singers/
