Classic Poem

A VOICE in the roaring pine-wood,
A voice in the breaking sea,
A voice in the storm-red morning,
That will not let me be.

It is calling me to the forest,
It is calling me to the strand,
The Weather-spirit is calling me
To fare over sea and land.

Till my cheek with the rain is stinging,
And my hand is wet with the spray,
There is that within my bosom
Which will not let me stay.

Might in the pine-wood tossing,
Might on the racing sea,
The Weather-spirit, my brother,
Is calling, calling, to me.