On the lone height of some untrodden hill
The shadowy mother goes,
Calling, calling;
Grief hath her eyes, her cheek is wan and chill
As winter snows
On the far height of some untrodden hill.
The four strong winds take up her voice and fly
The circling world around,
Calling, calling;
The northern gale goes forth with sudden cry—
Tempestuous sound;
The four strong winds take up her voice and fly.
Where the wan wave leaps lone beneath the moon
The west wet winds will roam,
Calling, calling;
Where southern breezes stir some far lagoon
The ships sail home,
Where the wan wave leaps lone beneath the moon.
Through the grey clouding of the silent night
Her wandering children rise,
Calling, calling;
Homeward they turn like birds of weary flight,
With longing eyes,
Through the grey clouding of the silent night.
I see them come on slow and wounded wing.
Where snows unmelting lie,
Calling, calling;
From the far south, where lives no ending spring,
Nor summers die,
I see them come on slow and wounded wing.
From the far heights upon the gypsies' road
They hear her distant voice,
Calling, calling;
Where the grey camel groans beneath his load
They hear, rejoice,
From the far heights upon the gypsies' road.
Once they went forth all full of hope and joy,
They would not heed her cry,
Calling, calling.
Their glad young hearts Time met to soon destroy;
They come to die;
Once they went forth all full of hope and joy.
She draws them home, and holds them to her heart,
Like children put to sleep;
Calling, calling,
On those far others who are still apart,
Who wandering weep;
She draws them home, and holds them to her heart.
She lays them down in their deep beds to rest,
With coverlet of green,
Calling, calling.
Do they not join in her enduring quest,
Her piteous keen,
Who lie so still in their cold graves to rest?
Across the world her voice comes crying still,
One exile's heart to break,
Calling, calling.
Ah! calling, too, from out their graves so chill.
The lone dead speak.
Across the world dear voices calling still.