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Poems (Kennedy)/Runaways

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4590603Poems — RunawaysSara Beaumont Kennedy

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.

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.

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!