A Song of the Road

All the mills in the world are grinding gold grain, 
All hearts in the world like my heart should be fain 
For my foot goes in time to a holiday measure 
And the bird in my bosom is singing for pleasure. 

Tall soldiers in gold stand the plumed ranks of corn, 
And the poppies are dancing for joy of the morn: 
They're gipsies and vagrants, the home-keepers say, 
But my heart is at one with the poppies to-day. 

I know not what end to my travel shall be, 
Or what fairy Prince rides a-seeking for me — 
He may be a Sheogue in graithing of gold, 
Or a graybeard who tarries for young maids and old. 

Meanwhile I go tramping the merry world over, 
With the flower of my heart folded close for my lover: 
Folded safely and close till my Prince come and claim 
The bud long asleep, and the flower turn a flame. 

Meanwhile I go tramping, a masterless maid, 
With flowers blowing for me in sunshine and shade, 
White poppies, red poppies, sea-poppies of amber, 
And a wreath for my head of all wild vines that clamber. 

I am one with the wind and the flowers in the corn 
And I and the wind laugh aloud in our scorn 
At the bedesmen who quarrel earth's meadow-lands over, 
While there's roses on bushes and honey in clover.