The Gypsie’s Road

I shall go on the gypsies' road, The road that has no ending; For the sedge is brown on the lone lake side, The wild geese eastward tending. I shall go as the unfettered wave, From shore to shore, forgetting The grief that lies 'neath a roof-tree's shade, The years that bring regretting. No law shall dare my wandering stay, No man my acres measure; The world was made for the gypsies' feet, The winding road for pleasure. And I shall drift as the pale leaf strayed, Whither the wild wind listed, I shall sleep in the dark of the hedge, 'Neath rose and thorn entwisted. This was a call in the heart of the night, A whispering dream's dear treasure. ‘The world was made for the nomads' feet, The winding road for pleasure.’ I stole at dawn from my roof-tree's shade, And the cares that it did cover; I flew to the heart of the fierce north wind, As a maid will greet her lover. But a thousand hands did draw me back And bid me to their tending; I may not go on the gypsies' road— The road that has no ending.