A gypsy am I, as I rove on the downy dale; <br />Aside from the taverns, the fields are my only vale. <br />I drink from my carafe a fairy-fermented brew, <br />And I dream of fair love, beneath a radiant sky of blue. <br /> <br />I carry within my satchel a book of romantic rhyme; <br />I wield it when I may, and write as I did of old: - <br />Of a sable-haired girl, whose gaze is of a raven-gold. <br />Her dress is white and long, and her hair is of an elysian clime. <br /> <br />I am struck by visions beside the lane, <br />On starry October nights, laved by the autumn rain, <br />And I sleep beneath the myrtles, musing on her kiss. <br /> <br />I have searched for her in ethereal bliss. <br />I have seen her face in dreams, wandering on the shore, <br />And the specter of her beauty, passing on the moor.<br /><br />John Lars Zwerenz<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-gypsy-s-life/
