The Wander-fever's in my blood,
I have no time for simple loving—
The hot Earth is in roving mood,
And I too must be roving.
If I should love you ... soon, ah, soon
I'd break your heart to go a-roaming,
And chasing shadows of the moon
Think never once of homing.
Why will you wring my breast with tears?
Tears will not quench the Wander-fever.