Gipsy Love.

THE gipsy tents are on the down,

The gipsy girls are here;

And its O to be off and away from the town With a gipsy for my dear!

We'd make our bed in the bracken

With the lark for a chambermaid;

The lark would sing us awake in the morning,
Singing above our head.

We'd drink the sunlight all day long
With never a house to bind us;
And we'd only flout in a merry song
The world we left behind us.

We would be free as birds are free

The livelong day, the livelong day; And we would lie in the sunny bracken With none to say us nay.

The gipsy tents are on the down,

The gipsy girls are here;

And its O to be off and away from the town With a gipsy for my dear.

On the Roads.

THE road winds onward long and white,
It curves in mazy coils and crooks
A beckoning finger down the height;
It calls me with the voice of brooks
To thirsty travellers in the night.

I leave the lonely city street,

The awful silence of the crowd; The rhythm of the roads I beat,

My blood leaps up, I shout aloud, My heart keeps measure with my feet. A bird sings something in my ear,

The wind sings in my blood a song 'Tis good at times for a man to hear;

The road winds onward white and long, And the best of earth is here!

The Wanderers.

WANDERERS, ever wandering,

Their eyelids freshened with the wind of the sea
Blown up the cliffs at sunset, their cheeks cooled
With meditative shadows of hushed leaves
That have been drowsing in the woods all day,
And certain fires of sunrise in their eyes.

They wander, and the white roads under them
Crumble into fine dust behind their feet,
For they return not; life, a long white road,
Winds ever from the dark into the dark,
And they, as days, return not; they go on
For ever, with the travelling stars; the night
Curtains them, being wearied, and the dawn
Awakens them unwearied; they go on.

They know the winds of all the earth, they know
The dust of many highways and the stones
Of cities set for landmarks on the road.
Theirs is the world, and all the glory of it—
Theirs, because they forego it, passing on
Into the freedom of the elements;

Wandering, ever wandering,

Because life holds not anything so good

As to be free of yesterday, and bound
Towards a new-born to-morrow; and they go

Into a world of unknown faces, where
It may be there are faces waiting them—

Faces of friendly strangers, not the long
Intolerable monotony of friends.

The joy of earth is yours, O wanderers,
The only joy of the old earth, to wake,
As each new dawn is patiently renewed,
With foreheads fresh against a fresh young sky,
To be a little further on the road,

A little nearer somewhere, some few steps
Advanced into the future, and removed

By some few counted milestones from the past.
God gives you this good gift, the only gift
That God, being repentant, has to give.
Wanderers, you have the sunrise and the stars;
And we, beneath our comfortable roofs,
Lamplight, and daily fire upon the hearth,
And four walls of a prison, and sure food,
But God has given you freedom, wanderers!

In the Woods of Finvara.

I HAVE grown tired of sorrow and human tears;
Life is a dream in the night, a fear among fears,
A naked runner lost in a storm of spears.

I have grown tired of rapture and love's desire :
Love is a flaming heart, and its flames aspire
Till they cloud the soul in the smoke of a windy fire.

I would wash the dust of the world in a soft green flood:

Here between sea and sea, in the fairy wood,
I have found a delicate, wave-green solitude.

Here, in the fairy wood, between sea and sea,
I have heard the song of a fairy bird in a tree,
And the peace that is not in the world has flown t

me.