Gyspy Rover

There's a race of men that don't fit in,

A race that can't stay still;

So they break the hearts of kith and kin;

And they roam the world at will.


They range the field and they rove the flood,

And they climb the mountain's crest;

Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood

And they don't know how to rest.


If they just went straight they might go far;

They are strong and brave and true;

But they always tire of the things that are
and they want the strange and new.

They say "Could I find my proper groove, what a deep mark I would make"

So they chop and they change and each fresh move is only a fresh mistake.


Robert William Service

This Poem speaks volumes to me. Not that I roam the gloaming in a caravan! For me it is a metaphor for climb every mountain, ford every stream that applies.( Again with the Sound of Music reference.)
I came across it some time ago in a Truman Capote story and it stayed with me.
Having visitors who are stopping off in Peru as they explore South America brought it to mind again.

"They are always tired of the things that are and they want the strange and new"

There is a part of me that is always seeking the next thrill be it a long term one or instant gratification. Yet there is a side that seeks some constant and familiar comfort.