A gypsy am I, as I rove on the downy dale;
Aside from the taverns, the fields are my only vale.
I drink from my carafe a fairy-fermented brew,
And I dream of fair love, beneath a radiant sky of blue.
I carry within my satchel a book of romantic rhyme;
I wield it when I may, and write as I did of old: -
Of a sable-haired girl, whose gaze is of a raven-gold.
Her dress is white and long, and her hair is of an elysian clime.
I am struck by visions beside the lane,
On starry October nights, laved by the autumn rain,
And I sleep beneath the myrtles, musing on her kiss.
I have searched for her in ethereal bliss.
I have seen her face in dreams, wandering on the shore,
And the specter of her beauty, passing on the moor.
JOHN LARS ZWERENZ
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem