And we?—
We follow—follow—follow
In eager, endless quest
The lure of a mad unrest;
And come at last where the life lines part
With empty hands and an empty heart,
And the mock of a memory!
We follow—follow—follow
In eager, endless quest
The lure of a mad unrest;
And come at last where the life lines part
With empty hands and an empty heart,
And the mock of a memory!
RUNAWAYS
MAY o' the year! and we hate the grime
Of the narrow asphalt street,
For somewhere we know the roses blow
And the gypsy winds run fleet.
May o' the year, and the wanderlust
Catches the heart in its snare,
And we hit the trail with a pilgrim's hail
For the Land of Any Old Where.
Of the narrow asphalt street,
For somewhere we know the roses blow
And the gypsy winds run fleet.
May o' the year, and the wanderlust
Catches the heart in its snare,
And we hit the trail with a pilgrim's hail
For the Land of Any Old Where.
What matters or smooth or rough the road
So into the wilds it go?
When the day began the pipes of Pan
Played soft in the woods below,
And we caught the step and tracked him far
To his reedy river lair,
For his silvery flute it never is mute
In the Land of Any Old Where.
So into the wilds it go?
When the day began the pipes of Pan
Played soft in the woods below,
And we caught the step and tracked him far
To his reedy river lair,
For his silvery flute it never is mute
In the Land of Any Old Where.
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