His sandals are girt on his tender feet,
And he carries his scrip for what gifts he may.


What will you give to him, Fate Divine?
What for his scrip on the winding road?
A crown for his head, or a laurel wreath?
A sword to wield, or is gold his load?

What will you give him for weal or woe?
What for the journey through day and night?
Give or withhold from him power and fame,
But give to him love of the earth's delight.

Let him be lover of wind and sun
And of falling rain; and the friend of trees;
With a singing heart for the pride of noon,
And a tender heart for what twilight sees.

Let him be lover of you and yours--
The Child and Mary; but also Pan
And the sylvan gods of the woods and hills,
And the god that is hid in his fellowman.

Love and a song and the joy of the earth,
These be gifts for his scrip to keep
Till, the journey ended, he stands at last
In the gathering dark, at the gate of sleep.

ETHEL CLIFFORD