Whither wend thy wayward feet?

Only thus again to meet?

Fain were I a wand'rer too.

Thirsting all thy deserts through.

Golden wealth is that I ween.

Careless fancies are thy yean.

All thy hopes be ships afar,

Still thou hast the eastern star.

Yearning for thy wand'rer's crust

Fevered failure of the wander-lust.

Wand'ring in the waning glow

Piping on thy piccolo.

MY LADY OF DREAMS

MY LADY OF DREAMS

Calling to the languid South,—

With a secret at her mouth.

[Pg 41]

Closely fondled to her breast.

Wanders with his old unrest.

Where a thousand joys have kissed—

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