Over the hills I glide
And then, come swooping down
To some deserted spot.
Over river and lake I stride-
Through farm and field, and town,
Through desert sands, white-hot.
I laugh when the brooklets laugh,
And weep with wayside trees
So bent-so broken by the wind.
Sometimes the birds and flowers
Fill my path with song and bloom;
Sometimes a fragrant breeze
Leaves me drenched with faint perfume.
I hear the sounds of earth-
The low of cattle on the plains,
Clatter of hoof, sound of horn,
Rustling fields of rye,
Of wheat, of tassled corn;
Sweet sounds, so dear-
As through the year
Life marches on.
I am old-sad things I know,
Ache of road-worn travelers,
Lonely hours; the tragedy of pioneers
Who trudged through scorching lands,
Through rain-and snow,
Who bartered with famine-thirst-
And death-to give me birth.
But I go on in silence,
For those who know my life
Will sing my song,
Song of the Highway,
Long, white, winding Highway.
New York, 1931
Written by Pauli Murray (1910-1985)
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