Gypsy-Heart

The April world is misted with emerald and gold; The meadow-larks are calling sweet and keen; Gypsy-heart is up and off for woodland and for wold, Roaming, roaming, roaming through the green. Gypsy-heart, away! Oh, the wind—the wind and the sun! Take the blithe adventure of the fugitive to-day; Youth will soon be done. From buds that May is kissing there trembles forth a soul; The rosy boughs are whispering the white; Gypsy-heart is heedless now of thrush and oriole, Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming of delight. Gypsy-heart, beware! Oh, the song—the song in the blood! Magic walks the forest; there’s bewitchment on the air. Spring is at the flood. The wings of June are woven of fragrance and of fire; Heap roses, crimson roses, for her throne. Gypsy-heart is anguished with tumultuous desire, Seeking, seeking, seeking for its own. Gypsy-heart, abide! Oh, the far—the far is the near! ’Tis a foolish fable that the universe is wide. All the world is here.