I
But yesterday the winds of March
Bent back the barren branches of the larch ...
But O! to-day
The bareness from the earth is swept away.
Deep through my swelling breast I hear
The wild call of the gipsy time o' year—
O, Vagrant Spring,
Brother o' mine, I'm for the gipsying!
The greening earth I stand upon
Tingles my feet: Brother, we must begone!
Younger and younger,
All my heart cries aloud with Wander-Hunger