GYPSYING.

GYPSYING.
404.4

Your spirit makes a wanderer of mine!
I cannot choose but leave my hearth and go
I care not where nor how- If but on hill or sky you shine,
At pleasure of the gypsy wind
Like to the whirling leaves I blow!
I cannot choose but catch your hand and go.

The tenderness of yesterday from me
Is gone the poppy-drugs of passion go,
And duties that were dear;
I feel a tidal ecstasy,
The savage in me calls-I hear
My mate where’er deep waters flow-
I cannot choose but listen till I go.

In green gold glamour of the early spring
The daffodills are dancing-I must go!
In madrigals of flight
The sea-gull in me now takes wing,
The morning madness blurs my sight,
And when your pagan pipe you blow-
I lock my life a while, escape and gol
-Martha G. Dickinson Bianchi.