Not for me the bright, clean hearth nor a woman's clinging hands! Give me the smell of pungent earth and the sweep of desert sands! For within me lies a ceaseless yearn to wander, wander ever Out where gypsy campfires burn; constant I am never! Every morn when the blazing sun rises over the hill, Rise I, too, and wander on, feeling my pulses thrill To the wild delight of a vagrant breeze and a newer, stranger road, Singing a drifter's melodies, carrying never a load Of trouble or care. I'm fancy-free and wild as the western wave; I take whatever comes to me, and it's little that I crave. Alone I search for a Promised Land where chance and change may dwell, But sometimes I think of a tender hand that clasped mine in farewell; And then I curse my wayward heart -- but what is the good of that? For I'm a vagabond -- set apart -- and my home's where I hang my hat! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: MRS. SIBLEY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS PICKING AND CHOOSING by MARIANNE MOORE JIM, WHO RAN AWAY FROM HIS NURSE, AND WAS EATEN BY A LION by HILAIRE BELLOC THE WOOING by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR FIDELIA: 4. THE AUTHOR'S RESOLUTION IN A SONNET by GEORGE WITHER |