The Flitting

In gypsy life I cannot hide, For every bloom that sprightly grows May scatter on the winds, and glide Beyond the reach of time and prose.

Let flowers flit from nook to nook, Let starlings, clamorous in a sky, Sow young green, where a garden shook— Yet wastes the bloom of gardens high.

I live, and nature bids me stay, Where winds unfold the wildest lyre; And day by day, in silent play, My heart beats softly, like desire.

• John Clare