Poems (Kennedy)/Runaways
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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.
May o' the year, and any old where
Away from the city's reach—
On the windswept hill where the stars stand still,
Or racing the wave-wet beach;
Filling our souls with the soul of the rose,
Laughing at sorrow and care,
With a shepherd's crook and a well-thumbed book
On the road to Any Old Where!
Away from the city's reach—
On the windswept hill where the stars stand still,
Or racing the wave-wet beach;
Filling our souls with the soul of the rose,
Laughing at sorrow and care,
With a shepherd's crook and a well-thumbed book
On the road to Any Old Where!