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