Dora Sigerson Shorter (1866–1918)

I SHALL go on the gypsies’ road,

The road that has no ending;

For the sedge is brown on the lone lake side,

The wild geese eastward tending.

I shall go as the unfetter’d wave,

From shore to shore, forgetting

The grief that lies ’neath a roof-tree’s shade,

The years that bring regretting.

No law shall dare my wandering stay,

No man my acres measure;

The world was made for the gypsies’ feet,

The winding road for pleasure.

And I shall drift as the pale leaf stray’d,

Whither the wild wind listed,

I shall sleep in the dark of the hedge,

’Neath rose and thorn entwisted.

This was a call in the heart of the night,

A whispering dream’s dear treasure:

‘The world was made for the nomads’ feet,

The winding road for pleasure.’

I stole at dawn from my roof-tree’s shade,

And the cares that it did cover;

I flew to the heart of the fierce north wind,

As a maid will greet her lover.

But a thousand hands did draw me back

And bid me to their tending;

I may not go on the gypsies’ road—

The road that has no ending.