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Thy Divine Gypsy

I will be a gypsy—
Roam, roam and roam.
I will sing a song that none has sung!
I will sing to the sky,
I will sing to the winds,
I’ll sing to my red clouds!
I’ll roam, roam and roam—
King of the lands through which I roam.

By day, the shady trees will be my tent.
At night, the stars shall be
My candles, twinkling in the firmament;
And I will call the moon to be my lamp
And light my silver, skiey camp.
I will be a gypsy—
Roam, roam and roam.

I will eat the food which chance may bring;
I will drink from crystal sparkling spring;
I will doff my cap and off will go.
Like a wayward brook of long ago,
I will roll o’er the green
And scatter the joy of all my heart
To birds, leaves, winds, hills — then depart
To stranger and stranger lands, from East to West.
Oh! I will be a gypsy—
Roam, roam and roam!

But always, when I lay me down to rest,
I’ll sing to Thee my gypsy prayer,
And find Thee, always, everywhere.

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