by Katharine Lee Bates
Death bars me from my garden, but by the dusty road
Glints many a vagrant blossom the wind's caprices sowed.
Death locks my door against me and flings the golden key
To sink with many another beneath the moaning sea.
But there are haunts for gypsies upon the heather moors,
Where we share with one another the lore of out-of-doors;
And gypsy tells to gypsy what healing herbs are best
When the old wound starts a-throbbing and starlight brings no rest.
Source:Yellow Clover: A Book Of Remembrance
E. P. Dutton & Company, New York