Gypsy Soul
Gypsy Soul
By Grace B. Wilson
I cannot keep a tidy house,
Nor bake good apple pie,
Nor have a snow-white washing,
And I will tell you why:
The dewy smell of morning
Calls me to come along,
The bright flowers nod approval,
The lark sings his best song.
When shut within my own four walls
I only find defeat,
But dawns were made for folks like me,
And winds are honey-sweet.
(1951)