Classic Poem

The spring is here, with voice of cheer,
For winter winds are gone;
And with the birds and antler'd herds
My roving fit comes on.
I long to be in the forest, free
From civilization's chains;
For there's a flood of gipsy blood
Still running in my veins.

My soul is sick of smoke and brick,
I long for breath that's free—
The desert air, the hunter's fare,
The woods, the woods, for me!
Where things unbroke by curb or yoke
Bound through the green domains;
For there's a flood of gipsy blood
Still running in my veins.

I'm sick of trade, its ways have made
These artificial men;
I long to be both wild and free
In trackless savage glen.
All, all my life has been a strife
With bridles, curbs, and chains;
For there's a flood of gipsy blood
Still running in my veins.

Why should I moil and strain and toil
For lifeless things of art,
While greenwood bow'rs and wildwood flow'rs
Are springing in my heart?
Yes, deep aTheart, devoid of art,
A savage spot remains;
For there's a flood of gipsy blood
Still running in my veins.

Let who may dwell to buy and sell,
I'm off with the roving clan!
What are your gains but curbs and chains
To the free-born soul of man?
I'm off! away with joyous May
To Freedom's glorious fanes!
For there's a flood of gipsy blood
Still running in my veins.