The Market-Place

In the market-place, I stood, The folk around me cried, For they offered tongues of wood, And weeds from the riverside.

It was held, I thought, a worthy ground To feast on streams of life. The sun glint-gold blazed round While laughter filled the strife.

But the wild call sang from neither land, Nor river nor plain so wide; It was the heart’s open hand, That led where the winds reside.

• John Masefield