 | The poet, the fool and the faeries |  |
134
THE CALL OF THE HEART
Oh, my heart is on the moorland, on the old land, on the poor land,
Where it hears the heather calling and the gorse shake with the bee!
Oh, it's there I would be lying, with the clouds above me flying,
And blue beyond the blackthorn tops a peep of purple sea.
Where it hears the heather calling and the gorse shake with the bee!
Oh, it's there I would be lying, with the clouds above me flying,
And blue beyond the blackthorn tops a peep of purple sea.
Oh, my heart is on the moorland, on the old land, on the shore land,
Where the gypsy-bands of dreams pitch camp, the dark-eyed Romany!
Oh, it's there I would be dreaming, with the sunset o'er me streaming,
With her beside my campfire there whose voice still calls to me.
Where the gypsy-bands of dreams pitch camp, the dark-eyed Romany!
Oh, it's there I would be dreaming, with the sunset o'er me streaming,
With her beside my campfire there whose voice still calls to me.
With her, the light-foot maiden, with her eyes so vision-laden,
That little sister to the flowers, and cousin to the bee:
Oh, would that we were going against the hill-wind's blowing
To meet the playmates that she knew, that child of Faëry.
That little sister to the flowers, and cousin to the bee:
Oh, would that we were going against the hill-wind's blowing
To meet the playmates that she knew, that child of Faëry.
135
Oh, would that we were sitting beneath the wild-fowl's flitting,
Her dark eyes looking into mine as stars look in the sea,
While, dim as autumn weather, and sweet as scents of heather,
Our campfire trails its smoke of dreams like mists along the lea.
Her dark eyes looking into mine as stars look in the sea,
While, dim as autumn weather, and sweet as scents of heather,
Our campfire trails its smoke of dreams like mists along the lea.
Oh, heart, there on the moorland, the old land, and the poor land!
You're breaking for the gypsy love you nevermore shall see:
The little light-foot maiden, the girl all blossom-laden,
Departed with her people and the dreams that used to be.
You're breaking for the gypsy love you nevermore shall see:
The little light-foot maiden, the girl all blossom-laden,
Departed with her people and the dreams that used to be.
| The poet, the fool and the faeries | |