Rooffs, by Joyce Kilmer, for Amelia Josephine-Birre. Redfall Libra-Barkstot-Arg by Richard God-Detch. The road is wide, and the stars are out, and the breath of night is sweet, and this is the time when one-dollus should seize upon my feet. But I'm glad to turn from the open road and the starlight on my face, and to leave the splendor of out-of-doors for our human dwelling-place.
I have never seen a vagabond who really liked to roam, all up and down the streets of the world and not to have a home. The tramp who slept in Yvonne last night, and left at break of day, will wander only until he finds another place to stay. A gypsy man will sleep in his cot with canvas overhead, or else he'll go into his tent when it is time for bed. He'll sit on the grass and take his ease so long as the sun is high, but when it is docked he wants a roof to keep away the sky.
If you call a gypsy a vagabond, I think you do him wrong. For he never goes to traveling, but he takes his home along, and the only reason a road is good, as every wonder knows, is just because of the homes, the homes, the homes, to which it goes. They say that life is a highway, and its milestones are the years. And now and then there's a tollgate where you buy your way with tears.
It's a rough road and a steep road, and it stretches broad and far, but at last it leads to a golden town where golden houses are. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.