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! Ah, the wind -- the wind and the sun! Take the blithe adventure of the fugitive today: 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! Ah, 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. |