I LOVE the gold-brown flutter-bird
You caught for me;
But from its song is gone a note I heard
When it was free.
And when I bring the lace-ferns home
I can not bring
The wood-charm too—the spell of that wee gnome
Which makes birds sing.
The trees you painted with your brush
Are like the real,
But that still harking of the soft leaf-hush
You could not steal.
It is the spirit of the wold—the same
That's part of me,—
The gipsy wild of me without a name,
Unhoused and free.