  I’M married to a proper wife, My home is clean and neat, But I hear the gypsies calling me, I love the dancing feet. I long to up and follow them Over the rolling moor; I sicken of my own hearth-fire, The lilacs by the door. I long to see the sweep of stars Wheel nightly overhead; I want the four strong winds to be The four posts of my bed. I long to wake at dawn When all the world is grey and cool, And slip into the lonely depth Of a mountain pool. Three meals my wife sets for me— Enough for any man. But on her freshly sanded floor I see the patteran. |
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