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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=117248" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Whom the World Calls Idle</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">He is brother-born to the wind. Its song, in his heart implanted,<br> Stirs and wakes when the morning breaks and the wide horizon burns;<br>He is brother-born to the sea, and visions of isles enchanted<br> Slowly rise to his dreaming eyes from the furrow his labor turns.<br>Child of fate, be it soon or late that his heart he learns to know,<br>Not his to say if he roam or stay when the summons bids him go:<br> Brother-born to the wind of morn, he must share its endless quest<br> Who once hath heard the sovereign word of the gods of Great Unrest!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The stretch of the open road, the challenge of heights unmounted,<br> The distant cry of the beasts that lie at the mouth of some latent lair,<br>The sweep of the pathless plain and the speeding of miles uncounted,<br> When the rangers ride, with a star for guide, in the face of the battling air—<br>These are his whose fortune is, like the tireless tide’s, to roam,<br>Brother-born to the wind of morn, with the whole wide world for home:<br> Child of the soil, he must turn from toil to the dim and dreamt-of West,<br> Who once hath heard the sovereign word of the gods of Great Unrest!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Song of the stately pines to the winds of northward high lands,<br> Song of the palms across the calms that sleep on the long lagoon,<br>Glamour of breathless dawns on the shores of southward islands,<br> And the mystical light that tells the night of the birth of the tardy moon:<br>These—at the gate of his future fate, where the earthly questings end<br>And the shadows fall—he hath learned to call by the sacred name of friend;<br> These, in the strife of his hapless life, he hath learned to love the best<br> Who once hath heard the sovereign word of the gods of Great Unrest!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then shall it be for us, who have dreamed no dream Elysian,<br> To cry the ban of our fellow-man who brings no grist to mill?<br>’T is the verve of his viking sires that awakes the plough-boy’s vision,<br> And the rover roil in the child of toil is the roil of the rover still!<br>What is it all, this thrill and thrall, that hath mapped his earthly plan,<br>Unless some gain we may not explain in the onward march of man?<br> Brother-born to the wind of morn, may his lot be not the best<br> Who once hath heard the sovereign word of the gods of Great Unrest?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Guy+Wetmore+Carryl">Guy Wetmore Carryl</a> from <i>The Garden of Years and Other Poems</i><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=117248" data-title="Whom the World Calls Idle de Guy Wetmore Carryl" data-description="He is brother-born to the wind. Its song, in his heart implanted,/ Stirs and wakes when the morning breaks and the wide horizon burns;/He is brother-born to the sea, and visions of isles enchanted/ Slowly rise to his dreaming eyes from the furrow ..."></div>
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