THE WILD
Reading edition
I LOVE the gold-brown flutter-bird You caught for me; But from its song is gone a note I heard When it was free. And when I bring the lace-ferns home I can not bring The wood-charm too—the spell of that wee gnome Which makes birds sing. The trees you painted with your brush Are like the real, But that still harking of the soft leaf-hush You could not steal. It is the spirit of the wold—the same That's part of me,— The gipsy wild of me without a name, Unhoused and free.
