  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, Pink against the red brick wall, And the hand of twilight hushes The rain-children's least footfall, The dark Mother croon and lean 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 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. Where my fellow-vagrants wend, Following the trails of shadows To the country where they end. Well I know the gypsy kin, 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, And then forth beyond the morrow Where I may but half forget. Till some noon the gardener Sun Wanders forth to lay his finger 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. There will come the whitethroat's cry, That far lonely silver strain, Piercing, like a sweet desire, The seclusion of the rain. When the early violets come Smiling at the door with April, Say, "The vagabonds are home!"
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