Afoot

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,

Till at midnight I can hear 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.

I would wander all the hills 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.

So another year shall pass, 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.

And though I be far away, When the early violets come Smiling at the door with April, Say, "The vagabonds are home!"