The Gypsy Wind

The gypsy wind goes down the night,
I hear him lilt his wander-call;
And to the old divine delight
Am I a thrall.

It's out, my heart, beneath the stars
Along the hillways dim and deep!
Let those who will, behind dull bars,
Commune with sleep!

For me the freedom of the sky,
The violet vastnesses that seem
Packed with a sense of mystery
And brooding dream!

For me the low solicitudes
The tree-tops whisper, each to each,
The silences wherein intrudes
No mortal speech!

For me far subtler fragrances
Than any spell of morn transmutes,
And melodies and minstrelsies
From fairy lutes!

My cares, —the harrying throng take flight,
My woes, —they lose their galling sting,
When I, with the hale wind of night,
Go gypsying!