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A REFUGE FOR POETS WHO WRITE IN THE LYRIC TRADITION,

WITH RHYME AND METER, WITH OR WITHOUT MUSIC




IN THE GLOWING CANDLELIGHT

I am a roving minstrel;
I ramble all around.
I make an honest living
If I cover enough ground.
So I visit and return again
To many a country town,
And I never will be married
If Id only be tied down.

Two sisters came to dine one night
In a candlelit caf;
They sat at the table next to me
To hear the music play.
One sings and plays guitar
And dresses like a gypsy queen,
As fair a blooming flower
As my eyes have ever seen.

My address is always changing,
It may do no good to use it;
And when she gave me her address
I feared that I would lose it.
I bade her write my father, 
So that she could track me down
Wherever I might ramble,
To whatever country town.

And sure I lost her address.
I wondered if shed write.
Would I ever see her face again
In the glowing candlelight?
They say that love returns again
If once you let it go;
But I had let it slip away
Whether I would or no.

I have not seen her letter yet;
My father says she wrote.
Lest I let her slip away again,
Ill write to her this note
And invite her to the same caf
This coming Saturday night,
That I may gaze upon her
In the glowing candlelight.

If she does return again
Perhaps well leave together,
And roam as singing gypsies
Through both fair and stormy weather.
If she does not come again
Perhaps Ill feel like crying;
But then Ill travel on
For there has been no harm in trying.

Greenfield, Massachusetts, 1986




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