AFOOT
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THERE'S
a garden in the South
Where the early violets come,
Where they strew the floor of April
With their purple, bloom by bloom.
There the tender peach-trees blow,
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Pink
against the red brick wall,
And the hand of twilight hushes
The rain-children’s least footfall,
Till at midnight I can hear
The dark Mother croon and lean
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Close
above me. And her whisper
Bids the vagabonds convene.
Then the glad and wayward heart
Dreams a dream it must obey;
And the wanderer within me
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| Stirs
a foot and will not stay.
I would journey far and wide
Through the provinces of spring
Where the gorgeous white azaleas
Hear the sultry yorlin sing.
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I would wander all the hills
Where my fellow-vagrants wend,
Following the trails of shadows
To the country where they end.
Well I know the gypsy kin,
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Roving
foot and restless hand,
And the eyes in dark elusion
Dreaming down the summer land.
On the frontier of desire
I will drink the last regret,
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30 |
And
then forth beyond the morrow
Where I may but half forget.
So another year shall pass,
Till some noon the gardener Sun
Wanders forth to lay his finger
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35 |
| On
the peach-buds one by one.
And the Mother there once more
Will rewhisper her dark word,
That my brothers all may wonder,
Hearing then as once I heard.
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40 |
There will come the whitethroat’s cry,
That far lonely silver strain,
Piercing, like a sweet desire,
The seclusion of the rain.
And though I be far away,
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When
the early violets come
Smiling at the door with April,
Say, "The vagabonds are home!" |
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