There's a drop of Romany blood in me,
And days there are when it swirls and leaps
Like a river's race or a surging sea,
Stirring to life all my calmer deeps.
Then wandering, wandering must I go
And the great, wide, open places know.
For out in the world the woods are awake,
And I hear the voice of the calling Wind,
My wonderful wooer, my rough, sweet mate,
And follow I must! Perchance I'll find
His whip that drives the clouds o'er the fells,
And cracks in the corrie, like short, sharp bells.
The wild Ever-during is calling for me,
A missel's song and a curlew's cry,
Blent with a rivulet's minstrelsy,
And the crooning voice of the fir-top's sigh.
'Tis the great god Pan that I seek to find
Borne on the wings of my lover Wind.
"O! make me one with the wondrous earth,
God of the woods and the laughing rills!
Make me one with the lucent mirth
Of the Sun as he rides o'er the gorse-loved hills.
When I am gone and my singing is mute
Give to my Lover my silent lute."
ROSEBERRY TOPPING.