Spring Morning

Where am I going? I don’t quite know.
  Down to the stream where the king-cups grow—
  Up on the hill where the pine trees blow—
  Anywhere, anywhere. I don’t know.

  Where am I going? The clouds sail by,
  Little ones, baby ones, over the sky.
  Where am I going? The shadows pass,
  Little ones, baby ones, over the grass.

  If you were a cloud, and sailed up there,
  You’d sail on water as blue as air,
  And you’d see me here in the fields and say:
  “Doesn’t the sky look green to-day?”

  Where am I going? The high rooks call:
  “It’s awful fun to be born at all.”
  Where am I going? The ring-doves coo:
  “We do have beautiful things to do.”

  If you were a bird, and lived on high,
  You’d lean on the wind when the wind came by,
  You’d say to the wind when it took you away:
  “That’s where I wanted to go to-day!”

  Where am I going? I don’t quite know.
  What does it matter where people go?
  Down to the wood where the blue-bells grow—
  Anywhere, anywhere. I don’t know.