Poems (Kennedy)/Runaways
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!