The Call of the Wandering Jew
Hot lava flows in my veins to-night,
My nerves are jangling mad,
The Joy of Life is a tinsel gaud,
The sweetest songs sound sad.
I feel the drag of the Wanderlust,
I see the ghosts stream by,
I hear the call of old Ahaswer
And I must go or die.
A horde of ghosts from the grave tramp past,
And each one turns and stares,
And each…
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